Strays
by lok1sgrl
Summary: The new year finds Sherlock recovering from a life-threatening wound & taking a closer look at the people he cares about. Particularly his pathologist. Until now, he's had no use for sentiment. Molly is all heart & takes in strays. Like him. When Molly takes in a new stray & an evil genius returns, will Sherlock be able to protect her? Who'll protect her from him? Sherlolly.
1. Just thank you

The dying sun cast a long, dark shadow in front of her as Molly Hooper made her way up the street to St. Bart's. It was the second day of the year and her first day at work at the morgue from the winter holiday. Her breath plumed out in front of her on the cold air and she pulled her coat more tightly about herself. Not that it helped. It was cold and there were shadows everywhere.

It was a new year in London, the city where she'd lived for years. And yet, she felt unsettled. Everything felt different, hollow. Everyone she cared about seemed different.

Last year had shown real promise. Sherlock Holmes had returned from the dead and his favorable reputation had been restored. Well, Molly was one of few people who knew he hadn't really died and she'd helped him fake his demise. John Watson, their mutual friend, had found love, married and started a family. He'd even managed to eventually forgive Sherlock for keeping him in the dark about his alleged death. Molly herself had met a nice young man named Tom and had accepted his proposal of marriage. Everything, for a short period of time, seemed well and good.

It hadn't taken long for it all to go to hell.

Her feelings for Sherlock had returned with the consulting detective and not long after John and Mary's wedding, she'd realized staying with Tom, when she loved someone else, would be dishonest. Yes, she knew he looked like Sherlock and he was extremely kind, patient. They could have made a life together. It just wasn't in her to be that selfish, to string Tom along so she wouldn't be alone. So she broke off their engagement.

While she didn't regret it, she did come to realize she held a certain resentment towards Sherlock because he'd never return her feelings and she knew that now. As much as she wanted to blame him for Tom and everything else, it wasn't his fault. Molly told herself she was no longer waiting to see if he'd ever feel something for her but deep down, she was. She _knew_ she was. And waiting in vain for Sherlock would inevitably result in the life of a lonely, telly-watching, cat-loving spinster.

Her mother must be _so_ proud.

Right before the holidays, Sherlock took on a case as dark as the winter days and in a very short period of time, he'd ended up back on drugs – for a case he said though she wasn't certain she believed that. He'd been shot and nearly died, left the hospital before he should have to continue the case only to kill the man at its center, Charles Magnussen, himself to protect John and Mary. He would have been nearly dead _and_ exiled were it not for the threat of Jim Moriarty's return, his face striking fear in Molly's heart each time she saw it on a news report or paper.

She'd unknowingly dated him the first time he'd tried to take Sherlock down. Molly shook her head at her own not-so-fabulous taste in men. Scratch that earlier thought. Her mother must think her a right idiot.

Checking her watch, Molly sped up. She was already a couple of minutes late for work.

Mary Watson had been the one to fill in the rest of the details as to what had happened over the Christmas holiday. She'd asked Molly over to tea only a couple of days ago and the normally bubbly blonde woman was the picture of misery when she'd greeted her at the door. Mary, in confidence and while her husband John was elsewhere, had filled Molly in on _all_ the details of the Magnussen case, including her part in it. By the time she got around to telling Molly that is was _she _who shot Sherlock and how the same consulting detective had killed Charles Magnussen in an effort to protect John and his family because of her past, she'd been an absolute emotional wreck.

Molly had been as supportive as she could in that moment. She'd tried, really had, not to focus on the part where this woman, her friend, had actually shot the man Molly had been in love with for so long. It hadn't been easy. Mary had the love of a good man who had committed himself to her. She was carrying his child and their love was so strong, he'd been able to forgive her for concealing her past as an assassin from him. John had even been able to forgive Mary for shooting his best friend.

Honestly, the woman had everything Molly herself could ever want. And she did understand Mary's desperation to protect that – even if it meant shooting Sherlock Holmes.

The thing she _couldn't_ do was to tell Mary that she absolutely forgave her. Not in that moment. How could she? Mary of all people knew how Molly felt about Sherlock. Maybe Molly was of no more importance to him than a hat rack, but he meant so much to her. Mary's act, even to protect herself and those she loved, was a selfish one. Sherlock hadn't been in the wrong. He'd merely been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Sure, Mary had been deadly in another life and had deliberately tried not to kill Sherlock. But she _almost_ had killed him. That, Molly had to reconcile with herself and she told Mary that.

So, yes, their visit had ended a bit awkwardly and Molly's heart was heavy that she couldn't give her friend the complete comfort and forgiveness she desperately wanted. Yet. But Molly had nothing if not her honesty. Molly wasn't a lot of things: beautiful, vivacious, charismatic. She _was, _however, honest and loyal. Very loyal.

Most of her life she'd considered it a strength. The last several turbulent weeks had her reconsidering that. What if her loyalty were really a terrible weakness?

Trying to get herself into work mode, she tried to clear her mind as she approached the entrance she always used for the hospital.

Across the street from the hospital back entrance Molly was fast approaching, was a girl shivering in the cold. She wore a dirty jacket that couldn't have been much protection from the bitter cold, high heels, and black stockings with rips in them. Probably not twenty yet and a prostitute if Molly had to guess. They usually didn't work in the area of the hospital though.

The girl made eye contact with Molly for the briefest of moments, her eyes heavily rimmed in black before she hid behind a curtain of dark hair. She looked ashamed to be there and Molly's heart squeezed in her chest. _Poor thing_. Here Molly had been feeling sorry for herself when she at least had a place to live, a respectable job, and plenty to eat. From the looks of the poor creature across the street, she wasn't even well fed. Long, painfully-thin legs gave testament to that.

With a deep sigh and pity in her heart, Molly pulled open the door to the hospital and headed to her office. She'd get the girl a nice hot cup of coffee, maybe something from the canteen. Dropping off her coat and purse in her office and pulling on her lab coat, she headed up to unlock the morgue, check everything quickly so she could go get sustenance for the girl.

Molly was in such a rush to get something for the girl before she wandered away or got picked up, she really wasn't watching where she was headed. Flinging open the door, she collided with a tall, solid form. Hard. Strong hands gripping her arms and kept her from falling backwards, probably in an undignified heap on the floor.

"You seem to be in a bit of a hurry, Molly," he said, the sound of his deep, rich voice washing over her.

Glancing up into his handsome face, Molly smiled. Despite everything, she _was_ happy to see him. Especially now that she knew how close she had been to never seeing him again. If not for his wound, she might even have hugged him even though she knew he'd probably hate that.

"How are you, Sherlock?"

He didn't release her until she took a small step back. He was so much taller than she and she was in his personal space which he didn't care for either.

"I'm fine, Molly."

From the looks of him, that was far from the truth. Sherlock was normally fair, but now his pallor was alarmingly pale. The shadows beneath his eyes were dark so he couldn't have been sleeping. He was thinner than normal which meant he wasn't eating and might be using – or both.

Shaking her head, she decided to let it go. Sherlock was there because he wanted something. The faster she could find out what it was, the faster she could run her errand of mercy.

"Well, what can I do for you today?" Molly asked, hoping she sounded like her normal, besotted self.

"Molly, I just wanted to come by…" Sherlock stopped, seemed to be at a loss for words.

Poor thing. He must really be feeling poorly, she decided. _The_ Sherlock Holmes struggling for words?

"That is, I just…"

His beautiful eyes, she could never decide if they were strictly green or blue, were focused on anything but her and she could feel the agitation coming off him.

"Sherlock? Is everything okay?" Okay, now she was beginning to worry. "He hasn't…"

Had Moriarty moved against him? Now, when he was so frail?

"No." Sherlock's brow furrowed and now he met her gaze. He took a deep breath before saying, "Ijustwantedtothankyou…"

Sherlock had _mumbled_. That never happened either. Placing a gentle hand on his arm, she tried to steer him in the direction of the chair he usually inhabited at her microscope.

"I think perhaps you should sit down," she suggested.

Sherlock grabbed her hand and pulled it away from his arm, but held it in his. His face was a study in annoyance – but that was a good sign.

"I don't need to sit down," Sherlock stated with something like his normal authority. "I came by to say thank you, Molly. That is all."

"For what?" she couldn't help asking. She really hadn't seen him since she'd run the drug screen John had requested and slapped him silly for using drugs again. Surely he didn't mean _that_, did he?

"Saving my life," he said simply.

Molly was confused. "Sherlock, you've already thanked me for that. You know I was glad to help you with… well, the fall, I guess. You know I'd do most anything for you."

She probably shouldn't have said all of that. It was true though.

Normally her rambling earned her a look that made her feel like an absolute moron. Yet his eyes were kind, his expression soft.

"I wasn't referring to that particular occasion, Molly. I was… just thank you."

Molly's heart sank as she took him in. For once he seemed small in his Belstaff, looked so lost.

Not knowing what else to say, she just said, "You're welcome, Sherlock. Always."

"John's not permitting me to take any cases at the moment, so if I don't see you for a few days, there's your explanation."

The line was meant to mark his exit. He squeezed her hand gently before he released it, turning on his heel to make his way out of the morgue.

"If I don't see you for a few _days_," Molly called to him before he was out of earshot, "I'll know you're at death's door."

That stopped him. He actually smiled at her over his shoulder that. "Or it means John is holding me captive and I require rescuing."

"I'll keep that in mind," she told him, waving as he turned and walked away.

Require rescuing? Was that an invitation to stop by 221B Baker Street? What could he mean?

_Stop it, Molly. The man looks like death warmed over. You can't take what he's saying right now seriously._

He'd thanked her for saving his life but he didn't mean when she'd helped him fake his death. Had he meant when she'd slapped him for the drugs? He hadn't been about to _die_…

Shaking her head, she decided to analyze it ad nauseum when she was at home with her cat.

At the moment, she was on a mission. In a remarkably short amount of time, she'd gotten coffee and a loaded styro container of food from the canteen. Not the best food in the world but it was hot. Dashing out of the hospital door, her gaze immediately found the girl, now crouched down on the sidewalk across the street, looking cold and miserable.

Without any hesitation, Molly headed for the girl, coffee and food container in hand. By the time she reached the girl and saw the despair in her face, she'd decided no one would really care if she brought the girl into the morgue to eat and warm up. Well, as much as one could warm up in the morgue.

Molly never noticed Sherlock in the shadows by her building, watching her walk the girl across the street and into the hospital.


	2. I just called to say

Perhaps it was his weakened physical state, but Sherlock Holmes had been surprised when he watched Molly dart out of the hospital entrance she used each day to meet… a young prostitute.

He'd known the minute she'd collided with him in the entrance of the morgue that she was in a rush to meet _someone_. If she'd been wearing some shade of lipstick or taken extra care with her hairstyle, thrown on a dress and some heels, he would have known it was a man she was rushing to meet. Someone she was meeting for a lunch date or some absurd mating ritual.

Her appearance didn't meet the criteria, however, so his curiosity was piqued. Sherlock decided to watch and see what she was about since, honestly, he had nothing else to deduce at the moment. He had been curious also about why she was planning to leave the hospital so soon after her arrival. Her coat tossed haphazardly across her desktop and not hung on its normal peg in her office had given that away.

Now here she was, cup and food container in hand as she hurried across the street to the girl who slumped on the sidewalk on the other side. _Typical Molly. _So caught up in her efforts to help, she didn't once look for traffic as she went, completely disregarding her own safety. It was really a shame the pathologist was so mired in sentiment. She was of above average intellect and with a little more focus on that and a little less on her endless, fruitless quest for domesticity, who knows where her career might have gone.

Not that Sherlock was personally complaining. Her life choices had brought her to work in St. Bart's and the pathologist was of great use to him in his cases, his experiments. Of course, there was her attraction to him and he'd had to maintain his boundaries with her, deflect her subtle attempts to engage him in small talk. He'd had to make sure she understood that their relationship was strictly a professional one. It was more efficient that way.

Yet, as he watched her hand the food and drink containers to the girl, talking to her quietly, he realized that it had been some time since she'd tried to have a conversation with him or tried to flirt with him in small ways as she had before.

Sherlock supposed he should be grateful for that. When he'd returned from dealing with Moriarty's network, he wasn't entirely surprised to learn that she'd found someone. That she had agreed to marry the mystery man _had_ taken him off guard. Molly's taste in men was horrid. That they were willing seemed to be the only requirement she had really and it concerned him. The fact that she'd gone out with a disguised Jim Moriarty three times with no sense of foreboding whatsoever was testament to that fact.

John Watson had been much the same way, dating any woman who would go out with him. He too had found someone to love and had ended up engaged while Sherlock was away. John, however, had somehow lucked into finding someone who cared about him immensely and married her. Granted, Mary had concealed the truth about her past from John and the lot of them and had shot Sherlock in her effort to maintain her relationship with John and secure their future together for their forthcoming offspring. While Sherlock was still recovering from that bit of handiwork, he understood why Mary had done it. And truth be told, it wasn't a terrible thing that John had a wife with her assassin skill set watching his back.

Molly's engagement hadn't ended happily as John's had. Sherlock had expected as much. When he'd finally met her fiancé, he'd assumed the man's superficial similarities to himself were the reason she'd selected him for a potential mate. While the man seemed kind and well-mannered, he was of average intellect – maybe – and a poor choice for someone like Molly. He wasn't surprised when her engagement ended. Molly's cross behavior with him immediately afterwards wasn't entirely unexpected either.

Now, however, everything seemed fine. Molly no longer seemed angry with him. She was no longer trying to win his affections in a futile effort to draw him into a romantic relationship with her.

Molly was currently busy helping the girl rise from the sidewalk on shaking legs and he knew she intended to bring the girl into the hospital, possibly for medical attention. More likely Molly wanted to provide the girl with the opportunity to warm herself while she ate.

If she were _able_ to eat. The tremors that wracked the girl's body were easy to spot. Most likely withdrawal symptoms from drug use, he'd need a closer look to guess which one.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at Molly. Again, crossing the street with the girl and not one glance spared in either direction. How on earth had she lived this long?

Shaking his head, he turned to head back to Baker Street once she and the girl were safely inside.

The buzz of his phone had him pulling it out of his pocket. _John._

"Yes?"

"Sherlock, where are you?" John demanded.

Sherlock blew out his frustration on an exhale. If anyone else other than Mary had shot him, John would have been playing the overprotective doctor, insisting he not exert himself and get rest for recovery. Annoying as it would have been, Sherlock would have weathered it.

Mary had been the one who'd shot him and that being the case, John was nearly intolerable in his efforts to check in with Sherlock several times each day. He'd agreed begrudgingly not to take any more cases until John declared him sufficiently healed. The boredom was bad enough. The loss of privacy and peace of mind during his imposed convalescence had him contemplating a leap from a building for real this time.

"I am currently en route to Baker Street," Sherlock responded evenly.

"Good, I'm here waiting for you."

With John had ended the call. While Sherlock wanted to go anywhere but back to his flat to deal with John and his coddling, he realized he'd grown tired from his outing to St. Bart's to see Molly. It wasn't like he had a choice but to acquiesce to John's wishes in his weakened condition. He wouldn't be able to walk about for very much longer.

He was breathing heavily as he made his way up the stairs to his flat. John was waiting in the doorway.

"Where did you go?" John asked simply.

"Out." Sherlock pushed his way past John who didn't try to stop him. No, John merely shut the door behind him and regarded Sherlock with a disapproving frown.

"You look terrible," John pointed out. "Did you sleep at all?"

Sherlock had slept plenty. It was one of his limited escapes from absolute boredom at the moment.

Shrugging off his Belstaff and pulling off his scarf, Sherlock tossed them on the couch and sank down next to it.

"I've slept, John."

Grabbing Sherlock's coat and scarf, John turned to hang them up in their usual place. Then he was back on the case.

"Have you eaten today?"

Sherlock sighed. "You know very well that I have. You've worked Mrs. Hudson into such a state over my welfare, I fear she'll shove the food down my throat if I don't."

John's expression held a note of sympathy at that.

"Let's have a look then," John said, pointing to Sherlock's chest.

He began unbuttoning his shirt. The faster John checked the wound, the faster he would be gone.

"So where did you go then?"

John wasn't letting it go.

"St. Bart's."

John mumbled an expletive before holding out his hand. "Give me your phone."

"Oh for God's sake, John, I wasn't working on a case," Sherlock huffed. He was growing tired quickly of being treated like a child.

John's hand moved closer. "Your phone."

Sherlock nodded towards his coat. John rolled his eyes and dashed over to search the pockets of his Belstaff until he found Sherlock's phone, then he proceeded to go through it, mumbling about having words with Greg Lestrade.

Frowning, John looked up from the phone at Sherlock. He'd found nothing.

Smirking, Sherlock pulled off his shirt.

"If Greg didn't call you about a case, why were you at St. Bart's?"

"I paid Molly a brief visit if you must know."

John's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Yes, hmmm. How… how is Molly?"

"Molly is fine, John. Now are you going to check this bandage today? I fear the slight chill here in the flat may slow my recovery."

John tossed his phone onto the couch and crouched before him, gently removing the bandage covering the wound area. His kit was already on the floor by the couch and he reached for it as he studied the hole in Sherlock's chest.

"Stop whining. Your wound is actually looking a little better today." John went about cleaning the wound gently. "So Molly is speaking to you again?"

"She is," Sherlock replied.

"You should be bloody grateful for that, you git."

_Grateful._ The word lingered in Sherlock's mind as John quickly tended his wound, treated it and placed a new bandage. All the while he prattled on about Mary's changes with pregnancy, the decoration of the baby's room, and preparations for the happy day. Sherlock realized he should have at least tried to retain some of what his friend was saying because it was important to John. But it was difficult when he was tired, sore, and…

_Grateful._

John explained he'd be late checking on him tomorrow because of some appointment with Mary's doctor as he helped Sherlock back into his shirt. That was fine with Sherlock. John advised him to sleep, to rest. To remember his promises to John.

_As if I would be allowed to forget them._

Once John was gone and Sherlock was alone again, finally, he stretched out on the couch and prepared to go into his mind palace. First, he had to sort through all of the day's information. Mrs. Hudson's biscuits which were quite satisfactory today. He'd decided that tomorrow he was going to try and tidy up the flat because the disarray was disconcerting now that he had time to notice it.

And his visit to see Molly. To tell thank her even though she had no idea what he'd actually thanked her for.

She hadn't _actually_ done anything to earn his gratitude. His mind had conjured Molly in the seconds following being shot by Mary.

_Focus! _

Still, he knew Molly well enough to know that had she actually been there with him, she most certainly would have done whatever was necessary to help him. Knowing her, she might even have put herself in harm's way.

_It's all well and clever to have a mind palace. But you've only three seconds of consciousness left to use it…_

Sherlock might have been startled by his mind palace taking the form of Molly to help him get through the actions that likely saved his life. But analyzing it again, he'd gone over every detail so many times, he was coming to realize that Molly represented safety to him. She'd helped save his life when Moriarty had left him nowhere to go but down. At great personal risk, she'd guarded his secret. It was no wonder it was her image his mind had produced in those moments, the representation of her intellect and competence seeing him through the crisis.

_Sherlock, you need to fall on your back._

He'd fallen back, John had found him and somehow, he'd been saved. No, he'd not been murdered, he'd survived. And while Molly hadn't actually been there for any part of the entire affair – not that he was aware of anyway – she'd been a very important part of his survival.

Sherlock had worked so hard to keep their relationship professional. Molly had been a colleague, a useful one, and nothing more.

Now, well, that was no longer true. Despite the fact that he'd brushed Molly off, as John put it, countless times, insulted her, shamelessly used her, and been anything but what a normal person would consider a friend, he realized that's what she'd become to him. A true friend.

His phone buzzed, under his posterior no less, and after scrambling for a moment, he saw that it was Molly.

"Yes… Molly."

"Sherlock, I just thought I'd… I just called to say…"

Normally, her stumbling over her words was vastly annoying to him. Now… he couldn't bring himself to mind.

"Some things never change, yeah?" Molly laughed nervously. "I just thought I'd check in and make sure you were okay. See if there was anything you needed. I'm sure John has you well looked after though."

"He does," Sherlock replied, sounding pleasant to his own ears. He realized, for once, he wanted to put her at ease as opposed to simply not caring. "I'm fine, Molly, in this moment."

"Okay, well, that's good." Molly paused and he could almost see her bouncing on the balls of her feet, shifting her weight from one to the other as she did when she was incredibly nervous – or excited. "Well, if you need anything…"

"Thank you, Molly." He meant it.

"Goodbye." And like that, she ended the call.

Sherlock smiled up the ceiling, dropping the phone onto his chest.

"Goodbye, Molly."


	3. Who's That Girl

Molly smiled at her young guest who was wrapped in a quilt, sipping coffee and watching telly on her sofa. She'd sleep much better knowing the younger woman wasn't freezing in the horrible winter cold. As it was Charlotte, she actually preferred Charlie, with her face scrubbed clean and wearing a pair of Molly's flannels looked so young. Too young. Her dark hair was all clean now from the shower but didn't shine as it dried. How had a lovely girl like her ended up where she was – hooked on drugs and half-dead on the streets of London?

London chewed up people and spat them back out. They ended up in Molly's morgue by the day. Oh, she could just hear her mother going on and on about how stupid she was to take in some miscreant from the street and the danger she had possibly placed herself in. Her mother wouldn't understand. Here was an opportunity to help one of them, to maybe keep this girl out of her morgue. Besides, giving someone a warm place to sleep for the night wasn't that much of a sacrifice. Not when she lived alone.

The drug withdrawal wasn't as bad as Molly originally thought. Turns out the girl had been without a fix for a few days and her withdrawal symptoms weren't as bad as they could have been. She'd seen Sherlock in much worse shape. Molly couldn't get her to eat much but at least she'd be warm tonight. That was enough for now.

"So you're a doctor?" Charlie asked without looking away from the television.

Molly nodded, sitting down in the chair next to the sofa. "I'm a pathologist at St. Bart's."

The girl's gaze met Molly's. "You been working there long?"

"A few years," Molly explained.

"Do you like it? Working in the hospital?" Charlie took a sip of her coffee.

_When a certain detective isn't driving me crazy._ "For the most part, yes, I like working there very much."

"Do you have to wear all of that?" the girl asked, her gaze sweeping over Molly.

Molly glanced down at herself. Typical dress for her. The lab coat was in her office where it belonged. Slacks, blouse, jumper. Two pairs of socks but only because it was winter.

"It gets chilly in the morgue," Molly admitted. "I'm always cold, even in the summer. I always dress in layers."

Charlie nodded, turning her attention back to telly.

That was it? Why had she asked Molly was dressed? Curiosity got the better of her.

"Was there a reason you asked about… my attire?" Molly tried to sound casual but as usual missed it by a mile.

Molly thought the girl gave a single shoulder shrug under the heavy quilt. "I just asked because of the guy."

_Guy?_ "What…guy?"

_Moriarty? _Molly's heart raced as the girl looked at her again.

"The one outside the hospital when you came to talk to me. The detective from the papers. He was watching you. "

Sherlock? Watching _her_?

Molly shook her head. "Sherlock, yes. He's a friend of mine. He'd just left the hospital when I came out to talk to you."

"He's handsome," Charlie said. "I like his curly hair."

"I suppose," Molly replied to that. _Okay, he's gorgeous and the git knows it._

"If I were a fancy doctor and had a man what looked like _him_ watching _me_ like that…"

"Oh, no." Molly automatically made excuses for him. "He was probably waiting to see me get hit by a bus, Charlie. That's all."

Again, the girl shrugged. "Whatever you say."

"You'd have to know him," Molly went on though she couldn't say why. "He's just that way. Curious. A detective and all."

"I know men." Charlie was watching telly again. "I saw the way he was watching you. Weren't nothing detective-like about it really."

Her heart raced in her chest as she considered the girl's words. Sherlock? Watching her? Like _that_?

_Slow down, Molly. _It wouldn't take a great intellect to figure out she was besotted with the detective, had been since she'd first laid eyes on him. The girl could be trying to play her.

Best to just cut it off now. No manipulation, no getting her hopes up over the impossible.

"If you really knew him, Charlie, you'd know Sherlock… has no interest in me. Like that." Damn it. Was she going to stammer over her words now merely talking _about_ him?

Placing the coffee on Molly's table, the girl focused her attention squarely on her.

"I'll bet you another night here, in your flat, that I can… do something with you to get a rise out of him." Charlie shot her a challenging grin, sick and frail looking as the girl was, there was still fire there. "I'll prove my point."

Huh. That kind of reminded her of Sherlock himself. An experiment to prove one was right?

And another night at her place? Yes. That was what the girl was really angling for.

Molly sighed. It was supposed to be even more bitterly cold tomorrow and she probably wouldn't have the heart to send Charlie on her way into that anyway. If anything, they would prove that _she_ was right. Aside from putting a huge purple sombrero on her head to see what insult he'd fling at her, there was no chance that the girl or anyone else could do or say anything to make Sherlock Holmes interested in Molly Hooper aside from what she could provide him from the morgue for his endless experiments.

No, she wasn't going to admit to herself how pathetic the challenge really was. Molly decided to just go with it. What else did she have to do really?

"Very well, Charlie. Challenge accepted."

The girl's grin widened. She really was a lovely creature. "Good! What time do you go in to work tomorrow?"

"Same time as today, late shift."

Charlie nodded.

That was it?

"Do I need to do anything differently?" Molly couldn't help asking. Did she need time to do her hair? Makeup? Pick out clothes?

"No," Charlie said simply. "Just do what you always do."

Having no idea what that meant, Molly shrugged, too tired to worry about it now. Her shoulders ached and it was time she went to bed.

"I'm off to bed, Charlie. If you need anything, just let me know."

"Molly?"

Molly had just risen from the sofa and turned back to her young guest.

"Thank you," the girl said with all sincerity.

Something shifted in her chest as she watched the girl lie down, still watching telly. Charlie was safe tonight and warm.

Feeling good about her decision to take the girl in, Molly made her way to her bedroom.

* * *

The next morning had been pleasant enough. Charlie had slept soundly until late morning, it had warmed Molly's heart to see the girl curled up on her sofa, safe. She waited until she had lunch almost ready to awaken the girl. Charlie had gotten herself ready for the day and they had a pleasant time talking while they ate.

Charlie didn't talk about herself at all, not surprising, and Molly didn't ask. Instead she kept the conversation centered around books, movies, and eventually the hospital came up again.

"You seem very curious about my work at the hospital," Molly pointed out. The girl's questions didn't send up any red flags but her interest definitely stood out.

Charlie's face colored just a little. "When I was… younger… I thought one day I might like to be a nurse. Helping people. That sort of thing."

Ah. Molly couldn't help smile at that. "You still could be. You're still very young, you know."

The girl shot her look that said "don't be a moron." Again, she couldn't help but be reminded of Sherlock there.

"Charlie, just because you're where you are now doesn't mean you always will be," Molly told her. "You could be a nurse one day. You could be anything."

Charlie blew out an exhale on that one. "Right. I've no home, no money for school. No clothes fit to wear for school. My prospects are limited, wouldn't you say?"

What did she say to that? Molly knew she was right but she also knew there had to be a way for Charlie to rise above where she was now. There had to be services out there, help available. She'd need to look into it.

"We'll do some research," Molly assured her. "If I have a slow day, I'll see what I can find. If not, we'll see what we can find on my laptop when I get home."

Glancing at the clock by the kitchen window, Molly saw she had just enough time to leave for work.

"I'd better go," Molly told her, clearing their dishes and placing them in the sink.

Charlie set about helping her tidy the kitchen and by the time Molly had her coat on and purse in hand, her young guest appeared ready to go with her.

"Heading out?" Molly asked when Charlie followed her out of her flat.

"I thought I might head out for cigarettes, a paper," the girl said nonchalantly.

Molly regarded her then. "I'm letting you stay here another night in my flat but… no visitors."

Charlie nodded, looking tired. Did the girl even remember their challenge from the night before? Molly doubted it.

It was just as well.

"Promise?" Molly wanted her word on that. It was bad enough worrying that Jim Moriarty would show up at her door, and now she had a young guest who could be in danger from that, without bringing more trouble into her life.

"Promise," Charlie mumbled though she did look Molly in the eye.

Reaching into her purse, Molly fished out her spare key and gave it to the girl. "I want this back at the end of the day."

The girl nodded.

And then they were off, the girl walking with her as she made her way up streets that would lead to St. Bart's. The wind was icy cold and Molly was shivering before they were even half way there.

"Do you always _walk_ in the winter?" Charlie grumbled and Molly frowned noticing the poor girl's short skirt and thin jacket. The glittery pink lipstick she wore covered lips that would soon turn blue from the cold.

"Yes, it's good exercise and work isn't that far."

When they reached St. Bart's, Charlie held the door open for her and surprised Molly by following her inside. What was this all about?

Molly opened the door to the morgue just enough to hear that John and Sherlock were waiting inside. Charlie was right behind her though she didn't know why. Letting the door shut, Molly turned back to Charlie.

"I thought you were going after—"

Charlie surprised her by taking her face in her hands and kissing Molly solidly on the mouth. Molly squeaked – at her age, she literally squeaked – as the girl held her firmly, her kiss enticing and soft. All she could do was stare at Charlie in shock when she was finally released, no words immediately coming to mind.

The girl's face split into a wide grin. "Remember that challenge?"

With that the girl, pulled open the morgue door and nudged Molly through it.

"Bye Molly," she called for good measure as she literally ran back out of the hospital.

Both men were staring in Molly's direction as she tried her best to compose herself. She needed to get into work mode and quickly. John waved as he leaned against the counter and Sherlock sat on the stool at her microscope as always but instead his normal disregard of her, the detective eyed her curiously. He still looked frail, like he hadn't slept in a year. Even so, he was heart-stoppingly handsome.

"Sherlock, John, what brings you here?" Molly tried for friendly and bubbly and missed it by a mile. "Is John finally letting you take cases now?"

"There was a double homicide this morning and of course Greg called him," John explained in an exasperated tone. If he noticed anything was off with Molly, he hid it well. "The best I can really do is try to keep him from killing himself."

Sherlock's stare hadn't wavered. Hell, he hadn't even blinked as his gaze assessed her. Great, now she was more uncomfortable around him than normal. Perfect way to start the day.

Molly decided quickly that the best thing to do was to act as if nothing was amiss. Sherlock normally paid her little attention. Why should today be any different?

With surprising speed, Sherlock rose from the stool. He blocked her path to her office, towering over her in a way that scared her and thrilled her all at once. Molly jerked in surprise when Sherlock ran his index finger over her lower lip.

"Sherlock… what are you doing?" She huffed indignantly. "Why does everyone think they can invade my space and do what they like with my person today?"

"You have a shade of lipstick smeared over your mouth that is clearly not yours," Sherlock stated, his intent gaze darting between his finger and her mouth.

Making eye contact with him, Molly nodded. "Yes, I'm well aware of that fact. I just want to get to my office."

"Sherlock," John's tone held a note of warning. "It's not your concern what Molly does with her makeup."

"It's not _her_ makeup, John."

John stared at him in confusion. "What?"

"That isn't to say she borrowed the cosmetic. It's smeared across her lips from… a kiss."

Something strange flashed in those beautiful blue-green eyes but was gone in an instant.

That observation earned her a look from John. "You kissed a bloke… and he was wearing lipstick?"

Molly tried not to snap at John. "Charlie is, in fact, female."

John's eyes widened and Molly tried to edge around Sherlock unsuccessfully.

"Charlie? The prostitute you were talking to outside yesterday?" Sherlock asked.

John's mouth had dropped open at this point. She expected to see the customary know-it-all smirk on Sherlock's handsome face but even he appeared bewildered at the moment.

"So what if she is? Not your business," Molly reminded him sharply. With a none-too-gentle shove, she sent Sherlock stumbling back a step and darted into her office, locking the door. Fortunately, for her sanity's sake, no one tried to open it.

Without pulling off her coat, Molly sank into the chair behind her desk and tried to get her mind around the last five minutes. Charlie had kissed her. Sherlock had done his deduction thing because of it. Heaven only knew what Sherlock and John would make of the entire thing.

Molly had no immediate plans to leave her office. Ever.


	4. I had no idea

Sherlock hadn't been entirely lying when he explained to Lestrade that he needed to return to his flat to rest and process the information he'd gathered on the double homicide to this point. He watched John march into the flat behind him, regarding him with a disapproving stare.

"I told you it was too soon," John admonished him. "Sit down. Let's have a look."

Blowing out a frustrated exhale, Sherlock pulled off his coat and scarf, again dropping them on the sofa before he dropped onto it like a stone. As much as he appreciated John's friendship, he wanted him gone. He wanted to be alone in the flat to sort through the crush of facts that swirled around crazily in his brain.

He was certain that it was his incredibly slow physical recovery that was to blame for his current state of frustration. He couldn't dash around as he normally did on cases because he tired so quickly, the pain in his chest a demanding throb until he relented and rested. And that had to be taking a toll on his mental capacity, yes? Normally, he would have the crime solved by now. The case was a five at best and he, the world's only consulting detective, had not solved it within twelve hours? Pathetic.

Taking off his shirt, Sherlock was lost in his thoughts while John did whatever it was he did.

"Sherlock? Are you all right?"

John's question broke in on his thoughts. No, he was far from "all right." His stamina was nil, he was struggling with a case that a simpleton could have solved by now. And _why_ had Molly kissed that prostitute?

John crouched down to put himself on eye level with Sherlock, catching his gaze. "Did you hear me?"

"Yes. My hearing is still functioning normally." Leaning back, he allowed John to remove the bandage, assess the wound as he did each day. He avoided meeting his friend's gaze. John would want to _talk _about things. While it might start out amiably enough, the conversation would veer in the direction of his injury, how he got it, how sorry John and Mary both were, and what he needed to do to recover.

As if John sensed this avoidance, he stopped trying to make eye contact. Then he chuckled to himself as he grabbed his kit from the table and opened it.

"What?" Sherlock had to ask.

John shook his head as he began to clean Sherlock's wound. "Molly."

Since when did John laugh at Molly? He'd always been the one to defend the pathologist, to point out that she didn't deserve Sherlock's callous treatment of her. That John would now laugh at her irked him.

"Molly is humorous?"

John looked up him, still smirking. "Molly herself? No."

"Then what do you find so amusing?" Sherlock wanted to know, hissing as John used the alcohol to sterilize his healing flesh.

John stopped in his efforts. "For all of your great intellect, didn't you once stop and think today that maybe, just maybe, you rejected Molly so often that she's um… well, she's decided to play for the other team?"

It took Sherlock a moment to ascertain John's meaning. Once he did, he was more than a little offended.

"You're implying that my disinterest in Molly drove her to lesbianism?" Sherlock asked indignantly.

The question had John laughing in earnest now. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Would that be so hard to believe?"

"It would be," Sherlock informed John as he prepared a new bandage. "The look of surprise on Molly's face when she entered the morgue combined with the impromptu farewell the young woman yelled through the door immediately before Molly stumbled through it would suggest that the kiss took place just a moment before. It would also indicate that the young woman wanted whomever was waiting for Molly to know that the kiss had taken place."

John considered his words as he set about applying the new bandage and securing it. "Okay, so you're saying that the kiss took Molly off guard and that the girl wanted us to know she'd kissed Molly."

"Correct."

"Doesn't mean Molly didn't want the kiss," John mused. "Maybe it just meant she was taken off guard by the girl kissing her before she walked into work, right?"

Sherlock huffed at that. "She met the girl yesterday, took her meal while she was standing across from St. Bart's yesterday. She brought her into the morgue, presumably to warm up or perhaps for medical care. Molly's always taking in strays."

"Medical care?" John paused to meet Sherlock's gaze.

"Tremors, possible withdrawal symptoms."

"Drug use?" Concern clouded John's expression.

"Possibly."

"Wow." John shook his head, finishing his work at the new bandaging. "Knowing Molly, big heart and all, the girl probably stayed at her flat last night. That possibility concerns me a bit."

"Molly's a medical doctor and would know how to deal with such symptoms." It didn't need to be said she'd dealt with Sherlock himself when he'd experienced such withdrawal from drug use. In his defense, the last time _had_ been for a case.

"But she's a prostitute, yes?"

Sherlock was quite certain, nodded.

"What if a pimp or a john were looking for her? Tracked her back to Molly's place?"

Sherlock didn't like that line of thought. Of course Molly could put herself in such a position in trying to help a stranger. He sighed, cursing his current state for the millionth time. It was a possibility he should have already considered. If he hadn't been so focused on that damned lipstick…

"Unless of course…"

"Unless of course what, John?"

John's gaze met his. "Unless… Molly… hired her to -"

"Don't be ridiculous, John," Sherlock cut him off. "Molly most certainly didn't help or hire the girl to procure sexual favors."

"And how would you know?" John challenged him. "Maybe her surprise when she arrived at work this morning was embarrassment … or fear that you'd figure things out."

"_Things._" Sherlock shook his head. "While the sexual preferences of Molly Hooper are of no interest to me, and not my business as she pointed out, I would be incredibly surprised to learn that she'd picked up a female prostitute to satisfy any carnal urges."

Finished in his work, John's expression sobered as he tucked everything back into his kit. "When it comes to private matters, Sherlock, people aren't always what they seem. What if she did pick up that girl for sex? We all have our private fantasies, kinks…"

"I've been working with Molly longer than I've been working with you, John. If Molly were a secret lesbian or fetishist, I would have deduced it by now," he said with no small amount of certainty. "Not that I try to look immediately for… that… sort of thing."

John rose to his feet, staring Sherlock down. "No, you wouldn't have. You've been so busy deflecting her interest in you all this time that you wouldn't have looked beneath the surface in _that_ way. Admit it."

John was right about several things there. Sherlock simply hated it when that happened.

"I'll run by Molly's flat on my way home," John said. "Make sure everything is okay."

"I –"

"_You_ are going to stay here, Sherlock, and rest. If anything is amiss, I'll call you. Okay?"

Sulking, Sherlock nodded, knowing he wasn't in any state to go across town to Molly's flat to check on her.

And with that, John left, finally leaving Sherlock with quite a lot to think about.

John was going to stop by and check on Molly. What would he find? Would Molly be alone as she customarily was? Or would the girl be there? If so, he wondered what John would find…

No, he shouldn't be thinking about the pathologist, the prostitute, or the pink pearlescent cosmetic that had been smeared across Molly's mouth. It had been so obvious how it had gotten there and the shade had been all wrong for Molly's warm, natural, earthy tones.

Sherlock decided that he needed to push all of the business with Molly out of his primary mind space and focus on the case. _Think!_

Nothing came. Nothing at all. He was struggling. He broke out in a cold sweat.

_Damn it!_ Simple, easy details and they were eluding him. Perhaps John had been right and he wasn't physically ready to resume taking on cases. If he weren't careful, he'd look like an amateur fumbling around a case he could normally solved in a few hours. That wouldn't do.

_Had the girl stayed in Molly's flat last night?_

Sherlock growled, pulling himself up on the sofa and paying for it with the sharp pain in his chest that the movement brought. It was ridiculous really. He was weakened, frustrated with his current case when he shouldn't be struggling with it at all.

_Had Molly done more than merely kiss the girl? _

Sherlock had always kept Molly at arm's length, making sure she understood that he couldn't be what she wanted or give her what she hoped for. With no small amount of guilt, he remembered telling her that she just give up her attempts at romantic relationships all together. Her taste in men, himself included, was appalling. The situations never ended well. He'd only been urging her to be practical, to play to her strengths. She was a gifted pathologist, the best in London. She was the only one he'd work with and that was high praise.

Yet, was the end result of her bad choices and his manipulations that she was considering alternative options?

Then the traitorous thought pushed its way into his mind.

_It's not the case you're frustrated with._

Blowing out an exhale, Sherlock pulled himself slowly off the sofa and decided to go for the pain meds that John had left for him. The bottle was just where John left it days ago and he smiled as he read the label. Not an opiate, oh John had made certain of that, but strong enough to dull the pain and his rebellious mind. He decided that a drug-induced slumber might just the thing to clear his mind even though he customarily detested anything that interfere with his intellectual processes. Grabbing a glass from his counter, he clumsily filled it with water from the sink, dismayed at the flashes of black weakness battling his conscious state from such a simple task.

Swallowing down the pills, he finished the water before heading back into the sitting room and refilling the glass with Scotch. If he were going to give his mind a respite, he decided to give it a good one. He just wished the drugs would hurry and take effect.

Images of Molly and the girl drifted through his mind for perhaps the hundredth time since his deduction at the morgue earlier. The girl in her skimpy costume, thin coat and ruined tights, embracing his pathologist, her thin hands running through Molly's warm brown hair as their lips danced together. Molly's hair was down, always down, a shiny curtain flowing over her shoulder. His mind's lewd version of Molly ran her delicate hands over the girl's form, pulling the girl against her body…

Sherlock had changed into the shirt and pajama pants that made up his sleep wear and finished off the Scotch before stretching out on his bed with the bright afternoon light filtering into his bedroom and his phone by his side. He squeezed his eyes shut, heels of his hands pressed to his temples as if he could somehow physically push out the erotic images that had taken over his mind.

The Woman was to blame for the onslaught. He'd been able to control his sexual urges quite well until she'd crossed his path. Until her, he'd been able to get by with cold showers or the occasional wank when something had caught his fancy. And those incidents had been rare. More than one had involved Molly.

Yet it had been manageable. He wasn't innocent by any stretch of the word. He'd had his share of meaningless dalliances at uni. The sexual release had been appealing but always tangled up in sentiment, expectation. Personal ties he would never allow. Ultimately, he'd decided he'd never let his body's needs to take precedence over intellectual matters and it was a practice that had served him well.

The Woman had fueled fantasies he'd been previously unaware of. While they'd never been intimate, he'd easily deduced that she much preferred her own gender yet they'd been drawn to one another. He'd been fascinated by the dominatrix, her talent for control over others in matters sexual and otherwise. She was paid top dollar for her explicit services. Carefully selected clients who wanted her to control them, to use them for her own pleasure and perhaps receive ecstasy as a reward for obedience. The simplicity of the lifestyle, the lack of romanticism, the lure of control appealed to him in a way he'd never considered before.

The offer had been put out there by Irene and he'd considered it, but in the end he'd turned her down, thinking that would be the end of it. It had been the end of his dealings with Irene. But oh the fantasies it had sparked… the lurid dreams had helped him get through the two years he'd spent in exile, waiting until he could return to London, to all of those he held dear. In the beginning, it had been all about Irene but soon after they included Molly. He and Irene sharing her. Molly in his fantasies was the perfect submissive, so loving, so giving. Eventually Irene disappeared altogether, leaving Molly to his mercy, his control in his dark dreams.

Upon his return, he'd initially struggled with the fact that those he'd fought to protect had moved on with their lives, went on without him. He'd eventually accepted Mary as part of John's life though he missed his flatmate. That aside, their relationship was essentially unchanged.

Molly's engagement, at first, had bothered him more than he cared to admit. It hadn't been his intention to act on any of his private musings when he returned. Those were just for him. In his mind, they'd continue as they always had, her helping him with his cases, always there for him. His true friend as he'd decided.

When she threw "quite a lot of sex" at him, well, that had bothered him more than anything. At the time, he hadn't understood why but in time he came to realize that in his mind, he felt entitled to Molly. That she cared for another man _emotionally_? Trivial. She loved her cat too. When she mentioned having sex with what's-his-name? It wounded him. He had absolutely no right to feel that way but there it was.

It wasn't until his return that he understood why he'd conducted himself with Molly as he had. He was nothing if not a selfish bastard. He didn't want her love. Didn't want to love her. But he did _want _her even while he had no idea what to do with that realization. It's wasn't as if he could have her as he imagined. Molly craved sentiment, romance. A nice husband with a nice job to give her nice children in a nice home. Molly would have sex in the dark, strictly in the missionary position. She would tell herself it was terribly romantic while it would merely be serviceable and dull. Molly was a proper woman and good, deserving of all of the tradition and sentiment and _d_ull she desperately seemed to want.

She deserved so much better than _him_.

And then today happened. _Charlie_ happened. It was probably just his perverted imagination running wild, an imagination he was embarrassed in his weakness that he had lost control over. Molly had just been trying to help the girl, taking in a stray.

But the girl had tasted Molly's lips. Molly had confirmed it, had been defensive even. With _him_.

What else had Charlie been privileged to?

Sherlock choked on the jealousy even as his rational mind tried to keep the beast at bay. He knew that she'd just met the girl a day before, had been coming from a place where she wanted to help someone less fortunate. He admired that about Molly even as he didn't understand it. After all, he'd been one of the strays she'd taken into her life.

But it opened a door of possibility that he'd never imagined could exist. John's words came back to haunt him. _When it comes to private matters, Sherlock, people aren't always what they seem. What if she did pick up that girl for sex? We all have our private fantasies, kinks…_

What if…

He could imagine making his way to her flat, looking into her room to find her writhing on her bed with the girl. Reason didn't keep him from envisioning interrupting the dalliance, making Molly submit to him. She'd be sorry for sharing herself without his permission. He'd punish her so sweetly for making him jealous.

_I'm losing my fucking mind._

His phone buzzed softly next to him and he snatched it up, seeing he had a text from John.

_Molly's fine. Charlie's staying another night at her flat. Molly agreed to call me at any sign of trouble. Now rest damn it. - JW_

Charlie was staying another night at Molly's flat?

With a furious growl, Sherlock threw the phone across the room.

Eventually the pain meds pulled him into trouble sleep.


	5. Bedmates

**Bedmates**

Molly had been home from work for all of ten minutes when someone knocked at her door. With a groan, she set the groceries she'd picked up from Tesco on the table and made her way back to the front door. Surely to God it wasn't either Sherlock or John – _especially_ Sherlock – because she wasn't sure she could handle it after what had happened in the morgue earlier.

And Moriarty could be out there too. Couldn't forget him. That threat was never far from her mind.

Charlie's gaze met hers with no small amount of amusement in her expression. She'd been pleased when Molly explained what happened after the kiss, fixing her with a stare that screamed "I told you so."

"Don't get excited," Molly told the girl. "It won't be _him_."

"We'll see." Charlie watched with great interest as she opened the chained door to see who stood outside.

"Hello, Molly," John Watson greeted her, bundled in his heavy coat and gloves, his face reddened from the bitter cold.

Molly felt her face warm up even as she smiled at her friend, loosened the chain, and bid him entry to her flat. His gaze immediately settled on Charlie who was already comfy in the flannels Molly had loaned her, her hair and face scrubbed clean. For appearance's sake, she could have been a visiting niece if Molly actually had one.

"May I take your coat?" Molly offered.

John shook his head. "I'm only here a moment."

"John, this is Charlie," Molly introduced them. Charlie rose politely from the sofa to shake the hand he offered her. "She's my guest."

"I see," John muttered. And she bet he did. She could see the wheels spinning in his head. "Nice to meet you."

Charlie nodded, winking at Molly the moment John turned to Molly, and went back to watching telly.

"Molly, can I speak with you a moment?" John's voice was pitched low.

Leading him to the kitchen, she thought their conversation should be safe enough given that the telly's volume was pretty robust. She had some idea of what he might say even as she sent up a silent prayer that the kind man wouldn't bring up the kiss.

Looking over his shoulder to make sure Charlie wasn't standing behind him, John leaned in close. "Your friend Charlie? She's really a…"

"Prostitute? Yes." Molly told him.

"How long will she be staying with you?" he asked bluntly.

Molly shrugged. "I agreed to let her stay tonight. Nothing more has been discussed."

"Is she currently… working? What do you know about her, Molly?" John pressed.

"Not a lot." Molly knew what he had to be thinking – that she was a right idiot to let a street walker into her home. "She really hasn't talked about it. I only thought to give her a place to stay to recover and stay warm."

"Recover from drug use?"

"Yes," she admit, feeling worse by the moment. Sherlock must have deduced that and told John.

"Molly, and I'm saying this as a friend, but do you really think this is a good idea?" John's face was a mask of determination. "I know you want to help her and I think that's great. But there could be pimps, clients… dealers – any number of people who could track her here. I'd hate to see you hurt because you tried to help someone. You have to be practical. You're a woman, a small woman, living on her own. I'm worried about your safety and I know Mary will be too."

Her heart lifted at his explanation. John was one of the kindest people she'd ever met. And he was right of course. It was his military training she supposed. He'd identified a threat and he wanted to make sure she had a plan to deal with it.

"I'm sure she'll be moving on soon," Molly told him, deciding then to talk to Charlie about her plans once he'd gone. "We'll talk about it. Promise."

"You'll talk to her?" John wanted her assurance.

"Yes."

He nodded but his gaze didn't waver. "If you need anything, or there is any sign of trouble, call me immediately. Do you understand?"

Molly nodded. "Yes, thank you, John."

"If I don't see you tomorrow at the morgue, I'll be checking in with you here, all right?"

Molly had to chuckle at that. "I'll be there. We're all keeping you on your toes, aren't we? Mary and a baby on the way, managing Sherlock, and now this. I'll take care of this. You've got enough on your plate."

John smiled. Her fellow doctor really was quite handsome in a subtle way. "Life's never boring."

"No, it's not." Not while Sherlock was in their lives anyway.

"How is Sherlock doing?" Molly had to ask. "Really?"

"Whiny git." John shook his head. "He doesn't understand why he can't miraculously recover from being shot in the chest. He's frustrated and he's well… he's just Sherlock."

Molly had no doubt he was just that.

"He probably would have been over here himself to check on things if he were in better form," John threw in. "I'll let him know I talked to you."

Molly smiled, nodded. _Please don't bring up what happened earlier._

"Sorry for that whole scene earlier, Molly."

And he went there.

Molly didn't say anything. No way. She wasn't taking that bait.

"I'll keep at him about personal boundaries, but I thought I should apologize for that…"

"Nothing to apologize for, John," Molly said dismissively. "Just Sherlock doing what he does. No harm done."

That made John pause and Molly had the hardest time keeping a straight face. Not only had she avoided that fire, she'd put it out. It felt good.

"Yeah, okay. I'm just going to head back to Mary then," John said, jerking a thumb in the direction of her door. "Call me if anything comes up."

"I will, John. Thank you."

Molly saw him out and took a deep breath. That was one item dealt with. Now she had the task of putting up her groceries and dealing with Charlie.

First things first, she headed back for the kitchen. Charlie followed her.

"I'll get us some dinner going as soon as I've put everything away," Molly told her.

Charlie was already pulling items out of their shopping bags. "I can help."

"Thank you."

They put up the groceries in silence for maybe ten seconds before Charlie began.

"So that's the detective's good friend?"

Molly glanced over her shoulder as she put the cold items in her refrigerator. "Yes, John is his partner. In solving crimes I mean…"

Charlie smirked at her. "Yeah, it's pretty clear they're not together like _that_. So he came to talk to you about me, didn't he?"

The direct approach. Molly nodded closing the refrigerator.

"Yes. He's concerned because he's my friend. And because of your…work."

If Charlie were insulted because Molly had told her friends Charlie was a prostitute, it didn't show. "He treated me nice enough… So you want me to leave then?"

Molly stopped, box of crackers in hand.

"You won our bet so you can stay tonight as promised," Molly replied. "Do I _want_ you to leave? I can't say that. I've had worse company and I feel better knowing you're safe."

Charlie smiled, nodded.

"But I think it's fair for me to ask… I mean, what's going on in your life at the moment?" Molly tried to be as delicate as she could.

Charlie wrapped her arms around herself, her gaze down. "Yeah, that's fair. I'm… currently without a job. Without a home. I'm just… trying to disappear."

Molly's comfort level dipped. "Are you hiding from someone?" she had to ask.

Charlie nodded, didn't look up. "No one you need to worry about. It's my sister."

"Your sister?"

"Yeah."

"Does she want to help you?" Molly asked gently.

"She says that but she doesn't mean it," Charlie explained. "Not really. She just wants control over me. Ever since our father died, we've been out on the streets. Her telling me what to do. It was her what got us into… everything."

The sister got them into prostitution? Drugs? Molly's heart sank for the girl.

"So you parted ways?"

"Not long ago," Charlie told her. "She moved us in with some bloke who is some sort of computer hacker. He was a weird one. He thought he was going to have some sister action, you know? I didn't want anything to do with him. She was all about the computers and learning all of his tricks and stuff. They kept pressing the sex issue with me and when I wasn't, you know, cooperating… I cut out. I left. Been trying to make my way since. Not well."

"So you don't have a…?"

"Pimp? No, never did."

"And the drugs?" Molly hated to ask but she just had to.

"The drugs?" Charlie threw up her hands, agitated. The girl began to pace. "They helped you know. They dulled the pain. I got those from a friend of mine. We traded, you know… But then he needed money and I wasn't bringing in much and he had to cut me off see. Then I felt sick, withdrawal, and that's about when you found me. I thought if I was close to the hospital and all, maybe…"

The girl's eyes were shiny with tears as she finally met Molly's gaze. Molly hadn't seen anyone look so utterly defeated.

"How long have you been on the streets, Charlie?"

"Almost two and a half years," the girl said easily.

Molly had no way of knowing if the girl was telling the truth. She wasn't Sherlock. Perhaps it would be of some benefit to have Charlie to talk to him. He could tell if she was being truthful.

Yet Molly knew a little something about being alone, being self-reliant. When her father had passed while she was still in uni, she'd not only had to learn to take care of herself at a young age, she'd also had to help her mother. None of it had been easy. While Molly hadn't had a lot going for her until she established herself, the girl she was giving shelter to had nothing. Less than nothing.

How could she _not_ help her?

John brought up a fear of someone coming to look for Charlie? Hell, Jim Moriarty could be coming for _her_ any time if he were indeed still alive. And no one was scarier than him.

Her mind made up, Molly finished putting up her purchases and fetched her laptop from her bedroom. Turning it on, she sat it on the kitchen table and had a seat, motioning for Charlie to join her.

"I believe we talked about doing some research earlier?" Molly smiled. "See if there is some help out there to get you on your feet."

Charlie swiped at her tear-streaked face with the backs of her hands and slowly pulled a chair around to sit next to Molly. The girl pulled her knees up to her chest in the chair, looking so young. Too young.

"How old are you, Charlie?" Molly needed to know.

"Nineteen."

They launched a web browser and began their search. Then Charlie continued to search while Molly made dinner and they talked all the while. Charlie was much more forthcoming about her early life. A loving mother who died when she was a child and a father who'd been lost to alcohol. Molly didn't want to meet her sister but was grateful to know something about the younger woman currently staying in her flat.

It wasn't too late when Molly went bed to get ready for work the next day. She woke up at some point in the night to feel a bundle of warmth snuggled behind her. In her sleep-addled mind, at first, she thought it was her cat Toby. Then she realized Toby wasn't _that _big.

"Charlie?" Molly asked, her voice scratchy from sleep.

"Hmmm?"

"Why are you in my bed?" Molly sat up, looking over her shoulder at the sleepy girl.

"Had a nightmare. I can go back," Charlie mumbled though she didn't appear to want to move.

Molly shrugged. "That's fine, I guess. Just for tonight."

She slept without interruption for the rest of the night.

* * *

Molly had overslept by nearly twenty minutes. She almost never did that. In a panic, she stumbled out of bed, and got herself together as quickly as she could. She had to skip a shower, twisted her hair up into a messy bun, and didn't even bother with makeup. She fed Toby, grabbed her bag and scribbled a note for Charlie.

She was ten minutes late to clock in at St. Bart's, much to her chagrin. But at least the day was off to a better start than the previous one. No one waiting for her in the morgue. She bustled into her office, hung up her winter coat, donned her lab coat and decided that coffee was most definitely in order.

This time she didn't run into him. Sherlock made it through the door a beat before she reached for it. Molly took a deep breath to steady herself and looked around him for John. John wasn't behind him and Sherlock was staring at her most intently.

Well, hell.

"Good morning, Sherlock." She'd just act as if yesterday had never happened and see what he wanted. If was just as well she was on her way to get coffee anyway. She could go ahead and get his at the same time.

Then she looked at him, really looked up into his face. The shadows around his eyes had deepened. He wasn't sleeping. He looked so tired. Guilt weighed on her as she realized she'd just been thinking of her own comfort. He was struggling physically. He'd been shot after all.

If he needed help, she'd help him. Didn't she always? She could just hope in his weakened state he'd keep the biting remarks to a minimum.

"My current case escalated from a five to a seven overnight," he informed her. "The body of a new victim in the case is on its way. A Mrs. Kyra Hyde."

"Mrs. Kyra Hyde," Molly repeated, committing it to memory. "I haven't looked at my list yet, I overslept. But I'll get right on it soon as she arrives."

Sherlock moved slightly closer to her. "Thank you, Molly."

"Shall I text you with the results or will you be staying?"

He kept staring at her with those gorgeous blue-green eyes. It was unnerving and not a good sign. Either he was getting ready to pick her apart – or he was worse off than she thought.

"I have some samples I need to look at actually," he told her.

"Oh, well… help yourself." Motioning towards the microscope he always used, she smiled. "I was just on my way to get coffee, I'll get yours as well. I'll be right back."

Molly didn't wait to see if he answered. She made her way to the canteen, got their coffees and herself a pastry, and hurried back. She found him sitting at the microscope, studying a slide. As unobtrusively as she could, she eased close enough to place his coffee where she always did.

His right hand clutched her right wrist the moment she released his coffee, and she jerked, startled by the unexpected move. All she could do is stare at him in surprise while he held her wrist to the countertop with a surprisingly firm grip.

"Sherlock, what—"

Turning his head ever so slightly, he pressed his nose to the top of her head, inhaling deeply. Her heart was flying in her chest as he smelled her hair. She didn't know whether to stay put and see where this was going or yank away in some form of indignation.

Almost as soon as Molly considered the actions she _could_ take, he pulled her around by the wrist he held, spinning her until her back was pressed against his chest. His arms wrapped around her upper body tightly, but it didn't hurt. She struggled to breathe as he held her against him. When she felt his nose edging along the shell of her ear, along the nape of her neck, she realized that she was holding her breath.

Lifting one hand, she felt him plucking at her hair until it fell around her shoulders. His nose again pressed into her hair, his fingers sifted through it.

Molly almost crumbled to the floor in the next moment when he released her, releasing her breath in a great gust. Wondering what had gotten into him, she turned to face him. He stood holding a long, dark hair in front of his face, clearly not hers. It had to have been Charlie's.

Slowly that penetrating gaze moved from the single strand of hair to her face.

"She slept in your bed last night?" he asked with what sounded a little like hurt coloring his tone.

"What—"

Before she could say another word, he grabbed his Belstaff from where he'd left it on the counter and marched out of the morgue leaving Molly staring after him with her mouth hanging open and no clue what had gotten into the consulting detective.


	6. Smiling Damned Villain

"What the hell was that, Sherlock?" John demanded.

Sherlock had been trying to retreat into his mind palace to focus on the case all day with little success since his encounter with Molly earlier. He stretched out across his couch in his normal position, but he wasn't able to get it off his mind. The smell of the young woman on _his_ Molly. The girl's dark hair nestled among Molly's own, indisputable evidence that she'd slept in his pathologist's bed. He'd simply left before he verbally tore Molly apart. Because he knew on some level that wouldn't be right. Molly didn't know she was his anything and if she thought he'd said awful things to her before, she surely wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of his jealousy.

"What was what?" Sherlock replied.

"You know what. Molly. She said you were angry with her earlier in the morgue and you just stormed out. She sent you the results you wanted from the autopsy and you didn't respond to that." John shook his head as he looked down at his friend. "What's going on then? What did Molly do?"

Sherlock did not want to have this conversation with John. With no idea of how much Molly told him, he decided to play to his current physical weakness and get some use out of it.

"I wasn't feeling well. I was short with her. Not good, I know. I will apologize. Later."

John's expression gave away the fact that he didn't believe a word he'd said. "Not feeling well. Right. Let's have a look then."

Sherlock rolled his eyes before he sat up. John's phone hummed just as he'd pulled off his jacket.

"Molly? What's up?" John greeted her.

Sherlock watched his friend's face pale.

"A message from whom?" John's tone held a note of panic.

Grabbing the phone John, Sherlock asked firmly, "Where are you?"

"Sh-Sherlock?" Molly's voice let him know she was terrified. "My flat."

"We're on our way," he announced, ending the call and handing it to John.

Based on the level of anxiety he gathered from his two friends, one conclusion.

"Sherlock, it's –"

"Moriarty," Sherlock said with certainty as he pulled his jacket back on and leapt from the couch to fetch his Belstaff and scarf. "Tell me on the way."

They hailed a cab and gave the driver Molly's address.

"She said he sent a message to Charlie through the internet," John explained in a hushed tone.

"To Charlie?" Sherlock considered that information.

"It's no coincidence that she ended up at Molly's, Sherlock," John pointed out. "He knows about her now. He has to. He'll come after her."

Jim Moriarty, for all of his intellect, had missed one vital thing in his plot to destroy Sherlock. Molly Hooper. John was right in that he'd come after her. His game had already started. He'd made his play. The message might have been directed to Charlie but Moriarty knew precisely who Charlie was with.

"You're right in that it's no coincidence, John. There are a couple of remaining questions. Is Moriarty truly alive or does someone want us to think he is?"

John nodded. "What's the second question?"

"Is Charlie knowingly involved in this game?" Sherlock asked. And he _would_ find out.

Not quickly enough, they arrived at Molly's flat. It didn't occur to Sherlock until he stood at her door that he felt, for the first time in days, that his mind was sharp and functioning with its normal precision. Yes, he felt the pain in his chest and the invasion of fatigue but he pushed it away.

Molly yanked the door open just after he wrapped on the door. Typical Molly in her flannels, a dressing gown that had seen better years, and thick red socks on her feet. Her hair was loose, and he preferred it that way, and the expression on her face told him she was barely keeping herself together at this point. He squashed down the urge to comfort her in some way, an urge that took him off guard really, and dashed past her into the flat.

"Show me," he demanded, already having spotted the laptop on her kitchen table.

Charlie stood by the table, chewing a thumbnail and not even looking up at his entrance. That was the first thing he noted. The set of her shoulders, the fact that she was trying to hide behind a dark curtain of hair, spoke volumes of some inner turmoil. The girl _knew_ he was coming but accepted it.

Planting a hand on the table by the laptop, Sherlock leaned down to take in the message on the screen. It read "Two birds, one stone."

And just like that a new game was started.

Below it was an image of a dark-haired woman, smiling with her arm around none other than James Moriarty. The smirk he wore seemed to be for Sherlock personally, as if were daring him to prove the image a fake. It most definitely wasn't. None of the normal signs of image manipulation were there. While his nemesis' plane black shirt and customary physical appearance revealed nothing, there were clues all over the image that validated a very recent date. The laptop behind them displayed a screen that indicated its operating system was the latest one that had been released only a few weeks ago, the girl's shirt was from a rock band's tour that was held in 2014 and showed wear, indicating she'd worn the shirt often since. Wrapped up in her other arm were two, cheap stuffed birds, their glossy bodies appeared brand new. One already had a rip just below its huge yellow beak, no soft material spilling from it. They appeared to have been won at a carnival or some common street fair. There'd been such an event not far from Baker Street last week.

Then he took a look at the young woman, no more than twenty three. The familiar shape of her face, the nose…

"Your sister," Sherlock spoke to Charlie who looked startled at his statement. After a moment, she nodded.

"Tell him, Charlie," Molly urged her as he took another pass at the image.

Trying to hide behind her hair, Charlie began to speak. Sherlock cut her off. He could hear her fine.

"Look at me." He really wanted to read the young woman who Molly had wrapped a protective arm around.

The girl's green eyes met his and she lifted her chin slightly. He quirked a brow at her as she began again.

"My sister and me, we lived with him for a time. He's a computer hacker of some kind," she said in a low voice. She was visibly trembling. "At least that's what I thought he was. I know from the news he's worse, isn't he? Much worse?"

Oh, she should be afraid.

"Tell me everything," he demanded, John standing just behind him now and taking in the screen.

Moriarty had taken them in, expecting to have the sisters be his two paramours. In exchange, he offered them a chance to get off the street. Charlie wasn't receptive to his sexual advances. He scared her. Charlie left because of her fear of him, even if it meant separating herself from her sister. Her existence since had been miserable and she'd sank into a world of prostitution and drug use.

Sherlock could read the pity in Molly's face as the girl told her story. The girl had Molly's trust. But then she trusted so easily and he refused to let any of what was unfolding bring her to harm. After everything Molly had done for _him_? He'd protect her with his own life.

Even if it meant sacrificing the girl she'd unwittingly taken in.

Taking a step closer to the girl, Sherlock studied her, turning his high-powered perception on her. The girl was nineteen years of age, looking slightly older because of her marijuana and heroine use. The girl was malnourished, from a poor family originally, not fully educated though not unintelligent.

Then he stumbled across two vital pieces of information from the girl who refused to drop her gaze. The most important, clearly, was that she had no knowledge of Moriarty's plans. The girl was not part of his plot against either himself or Molly. Not willingly or knowingly. She'd told him exactly what she believed to be true.

The other vital bit of information about her? She'd not given up hope regardless of her current station in life. It was there flashing in her green eyes, unabashed. Sherlock sighed. It was the reason Molly had championed her. It would make what needed to be done more difficult.

Molly's arm tightened around the girl, trying to comfort Charlie. Sherlock mentally finalized the plans that must be set in motion.

Moriarty's threat was clear. He wanted the girl, or wanted to exact revenge on her for thwarting him. He'd remotely manipulated her situation so that she would reach her current destination – Molly. He would now be aware that Molly was the one quantity he'd been blind to in trying to destroy Sherlock. Molly…

"Both of you, gather your belongings," he barked at them. "Now."

Charlie looked to Molly with frightened eyes. Molly's eyes were suspiciously shiny but she put on a brave face otherwise, nodding to the girl and urging her without words to do as he said. John followed them to offer his assistance.

Sherlock dialed Mycroft's number. There was no time to delay.

* * *

The ride in one of Mycroft's sleek government cars lasted nearly an hour. John had gone home to Mary to start making plans and they were off. Sherlock rode in the front with the driver, glancing occasionally over his shoulder to the two women in the back. Charlie wore the flannels Molly had loaned her covered by a longer winter coat, also Molly's though one she didn't wear often. She clutched the small bag that held her meager possessions on her lap, her grip so tight her knuckles were white.

Molly didn't look as if she were faring any better looking small in her heavy winter coat. One arm was around the girl's shoulders, the other on the plastic carrier that held her cat, Toby. Her lips were pressed into a nervous line and he could see the tension in the taut lines of her small form.

When they reached the isolated safe house, both women looked anxiously out at the two men waiting on the walk in their suits and coats, stretching to look beyond at the small house nestled at the edge of the woods. One of the agents, opened the door and they both bustled out.

Sherlock climbed out on the other side of the car, making his way to the pair.

The taller agent, Andrews, looked at Sherlock in question.

"Say your goodbyes," Sherlock told them unceremoniously.

Molly whirled to face him, her poor cat scrambling in his carrier from the scratching and yowling sounds.

"What?" She turned those wide, brown eyes up at him. Those eyes. They made him feel like a hero and a villain all at the same time. Molly trusted him but she didn't want to be parted from her young friend.

"Charlie will remain here with these agents," Sherlock explained. "They're Mycroft's. They will protect her."

Sherlock startled her without meaning to by grabbing poor Toby's carrier from her. She studied him for just a moment, nodding. She wasn't happy about being separated from Charlie, he could see that in her face. But she didn't protest.

Gathering Charlie to her, she hugged the girl fiercely, whispering words of comfort. "It will be okay." "They will keep you safe." "I will see you soon."

A tear slid down the girl's cheek where it pressed into Molly's hair. Just before the two of them separated, her green eyes locked with Sherlock's, flashing sadness, acceptance.

It wasn't until the girl pressed her lips into Molly's hair, against the elegant column of her neck, that he'd had enough. Jealousy, frustration, impatience. He wasn't willing to wade through it at the moment.

"Molly," he said firmly.

They watched as the agents led the girl up the worn stone walk to the house, looking over her shoulder at them just once.

Sherlock urged Molly back to the car with a hand on her back. Unnecessary but he wanted to touch her. Leaning in, he settled Toby's carrier on one side of Molly and he slid into the back seat on the other side of her. The surprise was evident in her face that he'd chosen to sit with her.

Finally, as the driver started the engine, she asked the question he'd been waiting for.

"Where am I going, Sherlock?" There was a slight tremor in her voice.

"_We_ are going to back to Baker Street," he explained. "Mycroft has made arrangements for your temporary leave at St. Bart's. You may return to your employment once Moriarty has been dealt with. Everything is taken care of."

Well, it hadn't been as easy as that. Mycroft had been fine with making arrangements to safeguard Molly's employment. On her being moved into 221B Baker Street? He'd been completely against it. While he'd agreed that keeping her in a separate location from Charlie was in order, his brother had thought it best to keep Molly in a separate safe house.

Sherlock wouldn't allow it. The last time Moriarty aimed for Sherlock, he aimed for everyone he believed to be important to the detective. John, Mrs. Hudson, Gary Lestrade. All had been threatened. And likely they would be again. But Molly? Oh, she would be a special target on his radar this time, wouldn't she? She'd helped Sherlock fake his death, loyally kept the secret, ruined all of those well-laid plans. The dark genius had to realize that Molly was _something_ to him now and Sherlock would be damned if he left her in a safe house with agents he didn't know and trust as her defense.

Now he would be there for Molly as she'd been there for him. She was _his_ to protect.

"Baker Street?" her voice was high, strained. The pathologist was literally shivering on the seat next to him in the warm car.

"Yes." He realized he should do something to comfort her. Wrapping his arm about her shoulders as he'd seen her do for the girl, he pulled her against his side. Molly's slight form was tense for only a few moments before she finally began to relax into him. When she dropped her head on his shoulder, he pressed his cheek into her hair. "There's not a place in the world where we could hide from him. We'll stay in familiar places. Mycroft's agents will be there around the clock. There's Mrs. Hudson to consider. John, Mary, and their child. We will wait for his next move and play his game on our terms."

Molly was sniffling now. Crying. Why was she doing that? He needed to do something else to assure her, yes?

"Try to sleep," he whispered, wanting his voice to be soothing. "I will keep you safe."

Shaking her head, she pulled back just enough to look up into his face. Tears ran shiny tracks down cheeks and she swiped at them clumsily with the back of her hand.

"I'm not worried about me, Sherlock. I'm afraid for you. He almost took you away from us last time."

Something twisted in his chest at her words. On one hand, they warmed him because he knew she came from a place where she cared about him and he didn't realize until the last year just how much he needed that and depended on it really – despite his previous belief that sentiment was so much useless rubbish.

On the other hand, Sherlock hated that she viewed herself as less important than he. Did she think herself expendable?

Sherlock shook his head. The game continued and his opponent had won the first round. Ah, but the things Sherlock had personally learned from that loss were considerable.

Sometimes a complete change in approach was needed. Instead of being reactive, he'd be proactive. This time Moriarty would find him ready. Ready to defend his friends, ready to beat him at his own game.

Ready to destroy _him_ this time.

"Don't be afraid." Sherlock pressed a kiss into Molly's hair, gently pulling her head back onto his shoulder because he rather liked that. "Sleep now. I'll wake you when we arrive."

Yes, it had taken the fall, her engagement, his being shot, and now this threat to realize that he needed Molly Hooper in his life. There were things to sort. But she'd be sharing his flat and that would give him just the opportunity he needed to figure out the swirl of emotions he had for her that grew each moment he was with her.

Molly did as he asked and drifted off to sleep.


	7. Wounds

**A/N: **Just wanted to say I own nothing here – except maybe Charlie. And just to say thank you for the reviews - lilsherlockian1975, PsalmReader, catsgotmytongue, Zeehana, lovelyreading, rubyred753, Bucky5, Sonseeahray – thank you all so much. Thanks too for the favorites and follows. I'm more honored than I can say.

"Molly, wake up."

His voice was a low purr in her ear and it brought her out of her troubled sleep in an instant. Yes, she remembered being terrified when Moriarty had interrupted her internet search for ways to help Charlie with his threat. She remembered fleeing her apartment and delivering Charlie to a safe house under Mycroft's protection.

Then she remembered Sherlock. She was going back with him. To Baker Street. If it were under any other circumstances, she'd be elated.

Yet with the threat of Sherlock's powerful nemesis hanging over them, it almost seemed like a cruel joke. Sherlock would protect her at 221B Baker Street. But how long did they have before Moriarty struck? Then there were their friends to consider, targets every bit as much as she. So many worries to prey on her mind…

"Stop thinking and get out of the car." That was a command and had her scrambling next to him on the seat.

With ease, Sherlock reached for Toby's carrier and pulled it out of the car, waiting for Molly to gather her overnight bag and climb out after him. The driver joined them on the sidewalk and Molly struggled to keep up with the long strides of the agent as she chased him up the sidewalk to the door. Sherlock matched his stride to hers, staying by her side.

She followed them through the door where a frantic Mrs. Hudson met them. The kind older lady spotted Molly immediately, pulling her into a tight hug.

"Molly, dear," Mrs. Hudson cooed into her hair. "I'm _so_ happy to see you."

Releasing Molly she turned to hug Sherlock who allowed it. "Good for you fetching Molly, Sherlock. Is she staying with me then? Or in John's old room?"

"She'll be sharing my bed," he said matter-of-factly.

Both Molly and Mrs. Hudson stared at him but he didn't seem to notice. Following the agent, the two men made a pretty thorough search of Mrs. Hudson's flat while Molly and the older lady watched. Toby had begun to yowl in his carrier. Poor thing. Molly just hoped he would survive the entire migration to Sherlock's flat.

"So you and Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson finally got Molly's attention, her expression one of bewilderment.

"No," Molly automatically replied. "I'm just-"

"Heading upstairs," Sherlock cut her off as he came back into the parlor. "Let me know of any irregularity. You understand?"

"Yes, of course, Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson looked as uneasy as Molly felt.

Sherlock gently squeezed his landlady's shoulder. "Not to worry."

Smiling up at him as best she could under the circumstances, Mrs. Hudson bid them goodnight.

Picking up the carrier and Molly's bag, Sherlock herded her out of the room and up the stairs, following the agent who was already marching up.

Sherlock set the carrier and her bag down, his hand sliding to his chest. Molly shook her head. He was struggling, fatigued. Could everything have happened at a worse time? And Moriarty of all things for him to have to deal with now.

They waited until the agent made his sweep of the flat even though Sherlock assured him he'd already combed it. When the tall, fair man rejoined them, he met Sherlock's gaze.

"Clear. Have a good night," the agent said to them.

"Good night, Mendelssohn," Sherlock uttered.

The agent left, Sherlock closing the door behind him and removing his Belstaff and scarf. Molly let Toby out of his carrier, watching him scurry under the couch and stay there. With a sigh, she thought she'd rather like to join him.

Sherlock watched her, his expression hard to read. After a moment, he seemed to remember himself and moved closer to remove her coat, hanging it next to his. It was late.

"Make yourself at home then," he told her. "I'll show you to the bedroom, bring your things."

Molly picked up her bag but didn't immediately follow. Of course it only took him a beat to realize it.

"Problem?" he asked, turning where he stood in the kitchen.

"You... said I'd be sharing your bed?" Molly didn't stutter exactly but she didn't hit the indignant tone she was aiming for either.

"Well, of course," he said as if it should make perfect sense. "John's old room is filled with clutter, I need access to the couch for my work, hence you'll be sleeping in my room."

"You said I'd be _sharing your bed_," Molly pointed out.

"I do like to sleep on occasion and under the circumstances…" He ended with a smirk and continued on to the bedroom down the short hallways.

Would she ever understand the damned man? Any other man and she would think he had an ulterior motive. Not Sherlock Holmes.

Up until his so-called relationship with the bridesmaid from John and Mary's wedding, she could have believed him to be asexual, so mired in his head was he. By the time she'd learned of that little situation with Janine from Mary, it was done and over. He'd used the woman for a case, the same case where he'd gotten high and ended up killing a man. A despicable man, granted. He'd had a good reason, protecting those he cared for.

Molly had been so relieved that he'd survived being shot - how would she survive losing him for good? – she'd not given a lot of thought to the woman he'd had a contrived relationship with. The dark-haired Irish woman had been lovely and Molly would be lying if she said she weren't jealous of the time and even faux affections he'd given her, because she was.

Yet the relationship hadn't been real. And Molly couldn't say anything. She'd been engaged to Tom, for _real_, when Sherlock returned. Not that it had mattered to him. It wasn't as if he'd ever returned her feelings and she'd accepted that some time ago.

And that was the rub. Sherlock didn't do sentiment and she couldn't let herself forget it. He'd stayed at her apartment before, one of his boltholes. Normally she slept in her spare room or the sofa and gave him her bed. But this wouldn't be very different. Right? He rarely slept to her knowledge, he'd always invaded her flat to go into his mind palace or get away from situations that annoyed him.

"Molly." His voice was sharp from down the hall.

Blowing out an exhale, Molly headed to the bedroom which was lit with the gentle glow of a lamp on the bedside table. A brief glance around showed the room to be neat as a pin, minimal décor. The bed was a huge four- poster and Sherlock sat on the edge, really holding onto his side now.

"I'm fine," he told her, his expression decidedly not friendly.

Dropping her bag to the foot of the bed, Molly made her way over to him. "You've overdone it, haven't you?"

Now he held out a hand to halt her. "I'm perfectly fine. John insists on checking this damned wound every day except today and I'm quite enjoying the reprieve."

Molly inched a little closer, noticing how warm it was in the flat in her dressing gown and flannels.

"Perhaps you are. But the only reason he didn't have the opportunity is because you had to run out to get me and Charlie, hmmm?"

Sherlock lowered his hand but still eyed her with annoyance and something else she couldn't name. Those blue-green eyes raked over her and apparently found her lacking. Ah, there it was. She knew Sherlock found her fashion sense to be appalling.

Well, the man had always accused her of having no taste in men or clothing. Some things never changed, right? No reason to wish to be prettier or more stylish because she wasn't. Molly pushed away her own annoyance to focus on the more important aspect of the situation. His well-being.

"Please may I take a look, clean it up a bit if need be?" Molly asked gently. "I'll be quick."

Again, he sized her up. "Why are you wearing all of that?"

"It's the dead of winter. And I'm always cold."

"You'll never be able to sleep comfortably in those flannels in here."

"It _is_ a bit warm." Molly would give him that. "Perhaps we could adjust the heating a bit? Save a little on the bills."

That earned her his classic don't-be-stupid look. "Then I won't be able to sleep."

"So you _do_ plan to sleep tonight?" she asked carefully, more and more uneasy with where this was going.

"I've not exactly been operating at full strength lately, Molly."

Molly cringed at walking into that one.

"Which brings me back to your wound. Just let me have a look. Then I'll stop pestering you, yeah?"

Sherlock blew out a frustrated breath. "Fine. John still has a kit in the bathroom. You can bring it back and have a look once you've changed."

"Changed?" The last word stopped her from bouncing off to the bathroom.

With some difficulty, Sherlock rose from the bed, walking over to the dresser to pull something out of a drawer. He handed her one of his shirts, a black one. Casually he handed it to her before returning to his seat on the bed.

"I think you'll find that more comfortable to sleep in," he informed her, easing his legs up onto the bed to stretch out. "Off you go."

Just like that he'd dismissed her to change into something he found acceptable and to get John's kit to check his wound?

"Okay," Molly muttered, toeing off her shoes and heading for the bathroom.

There was little point in arguing with him, she knew that from vast experience. And she really would feel better seeing his wound to make sure there was no infection.

_Fine. _Pulling off her dressing gown, she hung it next to his on the back of the bathroom door. Her flannels followed and she cringed seeing that there was a small hole in one of the legs of the bottoms. Not her best pair, she'd give him that. But then as she stood in her knickers and her red socks, she held up the shirt he'd given her.

The strong woman Molly always wanted to be was appalled. Maybe he _was_ concerned that she'd be too warm, but probably only because if she tossed and turned, she'd keep him awake. That aside, she just knew the arrogant man wanted her to sleep in the fine dress shirt he'd given her so her ratty sleep apparel wouldn't offend his personal sensibilities.

On a more personal level though, the thought of wearing only the silky shirt – _his_ shirt – while sleeping in his bed, some of the time with him in it, had her heart flying. It wouldn't offer much warmth, but since he apparently preferred a warm climate in his flat, she'd make due. It was dark and wouldn't be see-through, she was grateful for that.

Molly buttoned all but the very top button, wanting as much modesty as she could get out of it. Still it barely covered her thighs even though it was long and the sleeves had to be rolled up to even find her hands.

And the socks were staying on. Molly loved her large fuzzy socks in the winter. Red went with black so…

After finding the kit under the sink, Molly made her way back into Sherlock's bedroom. He looked comfortable lying there, eyes closed and fingers steepled under his chin. He was in his mind palace then?

Molly had only a moment to hesitate when he opened his eyes, gaze raking over her. When he noticed her socks, he smirked. With noticeable effort, Sherlock sat up, swinging his legs back over the side of the bed as he motioned her to him.

She'd just been about to sit next to him on the bed when he gently took her elbow and tugged her to stand between his spread legs. Standing there in just his shirt, in his bedroom, in such close proximity to the man she'd been unable to expel from her heart for years?

_No, this wasn't at all intimidating._

There was nothing to do but sink onto her heels before him to check the wound. His gaze stayed on her, those incredible eyes. She could swear she read amusement in that gaze as she turned to open the kit on the floor next to her.

"Okay, let's have a look then," the words almost stuck in her throat from nerves. Molly nodded to the white shirt he wore.

Sherlock's hands were planted on his knees, he sat unmoving. "Help yourself."

_Was he serious? _Not that she hadn't thought about undressing him before but…

Her hands shook as she reached the first button. The nerves were getting to her.

"So Moriarty?" she asked because she had to talk. It was her go to response when she was nervous. "Is he…"

One button, two. Three undone.

"Is he alive?" he finished her question in a tone that wasn't entirely calm. "Yes."

Four, five. Molly heard his sharp intake of breath when she undid the sixth one and then guilt gripped her. No doubt he was still in a good deal of pain. Gently as she could, she pulled the shirt free of his trousers, parting it to reveal the bandaged area of his torso.

She wasn't surprised that he was muscular, nor that his skin was so fair. But the scars. _So_ many scars littered his torso. Where on earth had all of it come from? His time in exile?

Taking a deep, calming breath, Molly peeled back the bandage to take a look at the wound. It was healing well, John had done an excellent job of caring for their friend. But from the sound of his breathing, she knew he was hurting. While she focused on removing the bandage without hurting him, he undid his cuffs above her head and pulled off the shirt entirely. When she turned to fetch what she needed to clean the area, he dropped the shirt onto his lap.

Dabbing at the wound that, thankfully, wasn't inflamed or red, Molly gazed up at him. "How can he possibly be alive? You saw him shoot himself."

When she focused again on tending him, he said, "There are several possibilities actually."

Nodding, she went to pull a clean bandage from the kit, there was only one left after the one she was about to use. Where was the medical tape?

"I'm going to stop him, Molly." The determination in his voice was unmistakable. "He won the first round, but I assure you he will not win the game."

Nodding, she prepped the bandage. "I believe you, Sherlock. I've always believed in you."

Pressing the bandage into place, her fingers smoothed over the hard planes of his chest. His flesh was so warm. It was heaven and hell to be in the situation she was in this moment. Able to touch him, to take care of him. That was heaven.

Hell was knowing he thought of her as a good and trusted friend. Hell was knowing he'd never think of her as anything but his mousy little pathologist.

"There." Molly was pleased when she finished tending his wound. "How is that? How do you feel? Do you have anything for pain?"

"Thank you, Molly," he whispered.

The change in his tone was enough to get her attention. Why was he looking at her like _that_? His incredible blue-green eyes were so intent on her, blazing with some emotion.

Gratitude. He was just grateful she was taking care of him. That was it. It had to be. Right?

When he reached for the shirt he'd loaned her to pluck open another button at her chest, her breath stilled. His gaze was heated as it roamed over her, settling for an instant on her mouth, another on her chest.

Sherlock settled a hand on her shoulder, rising to stand before her and clutching the shirt he'd removed. If he weren't so seriously wounded, and he were anyone else, she would have wondered at his pause. There she was, on her knees before him… If they had been lovers, it would have been so easy for her to have…

"Get some sleep, Molly," he muttered in a low voice, walking around her and grabbing a blue dressing gown from the dresser on his way out and pulling it on. "We'll talk more in the morning."

Molly waited until she heard his footsteps fade to tuck everything back into the kit and return it to the bathroom. When she returned to the bedroom, she slid into his bed, pulling the covers over her more for modesty's sake than necessity. The bedding was very nice, very expensive. It wasn't a hardship to sleep there.

It _was_ warm. Part of that could have been from being in such proximity to the consulting detective in a more personal way than she ever had before. For the thousandth time she damned her silly, girlish crush on the man. Her life would be so much easier if she could accept that Sherlock would never want her the way she wanted him…

One day, _maybe_ she'd get over him.

Until then, she was in his shirt, in his bed. Nothing wrong with enjoying all of it while she could, right?

It was much better than dwelling on the danger that they were all in now that Moriarty had returned.


	8. The New Flatmate

**A/N: **Since I had the day off, I thought I'd post another chapter. Thank you to Kathmak, metricjenn, Zeehana, sherlockian1975, and guests – _so_ much.

The sound of his phone woke Sherlock from a sound sleep on the sofa. Pulling the phone from the pocket of his dressing gown, he saw John was up early and texting him.

_How are you feeling? Are you home? – JW_

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock replied.

_Home. Fine. – SH_

_Your brother is looking after Molly and Charlie? They are okay? – JW_

_Charlie has been delivered. – SH_

John didn't respond right away and Sherlock rose from the sofa, intending to get started on coffee. The moment he was on his feet, his phone alerted him to a new message.

_And Molly? – JW_

Sherlock considered not answering the text. But then John would likely be coming by the flat to check his wound later today so…

_She's here with me. – SH_

Placing the phone down on the counter, Sherlock went about making coffee. It took almost exactly three minutes before John responded, calling him this time.

"Yes?" Sherlock answered, holding the phone to his shoulder as he continued his endeavor.

"Molly is with _you_?" John asked. His lowered voice alerting him to the fact that either Mary was still asleep or John didn't want her to know about the conversation.

"Yes," Sherlock answered simply. "She's asleep in my bed."

One beat.

"What?"

Sherlock chuckled at the astonishment in his best friend's voice.

"And you slept…"

"Not that it's any of your business, John, but I slept on the sofa."

Finishing up his coffee preparation, he wanted it to be ready when Molly awoke, he waited for John. He could hear the thoughts rambling through the doctor's head even on the mobile phone.

"So she was just there for the night or…"

"Molly will be staying with me until we resolve the situation with Moriarty." _Much longer if I get my way._

"Sherlock, are you sure this is best for Molly? Staying with you?"

John could be so obtuse at times.

"If it wasn't what was best for Molly and her safety, she wouldn't be here."

"Sherlock… safety aside, you know what I'm talking about. You've been behaving oddly where Molly's concerned ever since she took in that girl. Do you know that?"

Sherlock did know. But admitting that to John? Not a chance.

"Oddly?"

"Yes, oddly. The kiss? The scene in the morgue yesterday where you were apparently angry with her? Ring any bells?"

"John, Molly is my friend. I'm only interested in keeping her safe since Moriarty has resurfaced." That was all true. But he knew that wouldn't placate John, so he added, "And if I've offended her, I will apologize."

John's deep sigh on the other end signaled he wasn't done just yet.

"Look, I know you want to keep her safe, especially after all she did for you. But Sherlock… she has feelings for you, at least she did in the past. I don't want to see her hurt because of this arrangement, no matter how temporary it may end up being. Just think about it, yeah?"

Something twisted in Sherlock's chest at that. "I'll keep that mind, John. I will talk to you later."

"Yes, you will." John ended the call.

_…she has feelings for you, at least she did in the past._

The words had stopped him cold. Moriarty was back, all those he held dear were in danger and just a few little words ground things to a halt in his mind.

What did John mean _at least she did in the past_? Molly still had feelings for him, the infatuation with him he could never understand. She _had_ to. The thought that she could one day move past what she felt for him? It wasn't vanity. It was… He'd only recently come to realize just how much he counted on those feelings, counted on her. Sherlock needed to know she'd always be there for him, give him whatever he needed.

While he committed himself to doing anything he could to keep the gentle woman safe from his nemesis, he had to admit his selfish need of her had driven some of his actions in the last twenty four hours. It had afforded him the perfect excuse to move her into his flat. And why shouldn't she be there?

He'd grown accustomed to having a flatmate living with John. Yet when he'd returned from the dead, John had moved out, moved on. His flat hadn't felt truly like home since. It bothered him more than he initially thought it would.

Molly's flat had felt like home on the occasions he'd used it as a bolthole. Had nothing to do with her flat. It was Molly herself. Always there to welcome him, cook him meals, give up her bedroom. Molly with her warm brown eyes... It was _her_ that it made it feel like home.

Once he realized it, the answer became perfectly simple. Molly living in his flat would make it feel like home again. It would be safer for her than living alone with her cat. No doubt it would negatively impact any future attempts at doomed relationships with other men. They would both save on rent. It was brilliant.

There was the matter of convincing her to stay once he'd defeated Moriarty, if they both found the arrangement amicable, but he'd think of something.

Speaking of her cat, Toby cast him a baleful look from the floor. What more did the damned creature want? He'd put out the litter tray, provided food and water after Molly had fallen asleep. None of it had been touched. There would be an adjustment for Molly's pet he supposed.

Molly sleeping in his bed? That was a bit of jealousy on his part, he knew. She'd shared a bed with Charlie. Why not him?

Well, he hadn't shared it with her. Not yet. It was always something he thought he'd like to try. Ever since Janine…

Sherlock had nearly forgotten... He'd spent several nights with the insipid Janine for the Magnussen case and the only way he'd gotten through most of it had been to pretend she was someone else. _Molly_. He'd been able to close his eyes and imagine Molly's head resting on his chest, Molly writhing beneath him when he'd had to engage in sex with the woman.

Always Molly.

With a deep sigh, he made his way quietly to the bedroom.

_…at least she did in the past._

Molly slept like a child in a small corner of the bed, the covers pulled up to her shoulder, her hands tucked beneath her cheek on the pillow. She looked so innocent.

Not so much last night. Sherlock had taken advantage of the situation. He could have been a gentleman – _should_ have been a gentleman according to John's voice in his head. He'd insisted that she share his bed, insisted that she wear his shirt.

Still, it all made complete sense. If Molly were in the room with him at night while they slept, she'd be safer from Moriarty, yes?

And her hideous sleepwear? Sherlock had his limits. He knew Molly would be far more comfortable in his shirt. Janine had insisted in sleeping in his shirts during the month he'd spent with her though he'd been unable to understand why at the time.

Seeing Molly in his shirt, well that was a different story. He rather liked the idea of her wearing something of his, especially knowing she'd only been wearing her knickers under it. And the huge red socks.

Sherlock smiled. The socks he hadn't minded. He hadn't been able to help the mental image of her wearing only those socks while he fucked her into his mattress.

He didn't know what had made him have her kneel before him to change his bandage, made her unbutton his shirt. It had taken every ounce of his control not to fall on her like beast but he'd managed. It had been too easy to imagine her there for another reason, he could almost picture her lips wrapped around his cock while he held back the curtain of her hair to watch. He'd dropped the damned shirt he'd been wearing onto his lap to hide the evidence of his lust from her as she tended him with trembling hands and those tender eyes.

_Oh, John. She still very much has feelings for me. _How could he have doubted it? How could he have been jealous of the girl she'd taken in?

So what happened now?

He would protect her from Moriarty. He would see how their living arrangement went. Molly loved him. He didn't quite believe himself capable of love but he cared for her, could take care of her. He certainly wanted her and had every reason to believe she wanted him. Perhaps it would be enough. It certainly had to be better than her short string of idiot lovers who weren't nearly good enough for her.

Still, seeing her curled in just the corner of his bed, like she wasn't sure she should be there, had him feeling a slight pang of guilt. Sherlock had no intention of forcing himself on Molly. He'd let her decide if she would give herself to him. He rather hoped she would soon because there were so many things he wanted to try if she were willing.

And he wanted her to feel comfortable.

Sherlock slid into bed, gently reaching for her and pulling her against him. His robe was open but he had on pajama pants. Molly murmured something in her sleep, moving with him and curling around him like a soft vine. Her head rested on his bare chest now, her small hand on his stomach just below the bandage. Her thigh rested just below his aching erection and for that he was grateful.

She was warm, her hair smelling like strawberries as it always did. He lay there for long moments, just listening to the sound of her breathing. Once they were up, he'd been ready to take on his resurrected enemy but for now, his mind was relatively calm and he didn't want to give that up just yet.

"Sherlock?" her voice was scratchy from sleep.

"Good morning, Molly."

Her entire being shuddered at the sound of his voice. Molly liked his voice. It had him wondering if he could bring her to orgasm just using his voice.

Her small form tensed against him and she lifted her head to stare into his face with wide, alarmed eyes.

"Um…"

"Problem?" he asked nonchalantly, tracing light circles on her back wishing he were touching her skin instead of the shirt.

Molly eased up a little more, her knee brushing against his cock, lingering just a moment. Then she was scrambling away on the bed.

Okay, _now_ there was a problem. Sherlock sighed, remaining stretched out where he was and watching her struggle for words.

"Sherlock, I am _so_ sorry. I didn't…"

"Molly, stop. There's nothing to apologize for."

He could have laughed at the perfect mix of shame and confusion on her small face.

"There's not?"

"No. In fact, according to John, I owe _you_ an apology."

"What for?" Molly asked though the lovely flush still stained the skin of her face, what he could see of her chest.

"Yesterday in the morgue."

Molly nodded. "You seemed very angry with me. Then you wouldn't answer my text. Why were you angry with me?"

"I am sorry, Molly." Sherlock didn't feel the need to explain what exactly the problem had been. Not right now. "I hope you can overlook my behavior. You did nothing wrong."

"It's okay," she told him.

Sherlock nodded, blew out an exhale. Well, the moment had passed. Molly was on the far edge of the bed clutching the covers to her chest and wound tight as a drum.

Easing up in bed, Sherlock swung his legs over the side. Each day saw him recovering from the gunshot wound. Still it pained him at odd moments.

"How are you feeling?" she asked. "Did you sleep at all?"

Sherlock smirked at her over his shoulder. "Fine and I did sleep. On the sofa."

"Oh," Molly muttered, apparently waiting for him to leave the room before she got out of the bed.

"There's coffee," Sherlock told her as he made it to his feet. _But first a very cold shower is in order. _"And food should be up shortly. Mrs. Hudson is relentless in trying to feed me."

"Okay." Molly nodded, watching him as he made his way to the door.

The question in her mind stopped him. He didn't know what it was, he just knew it was there.

"Yes, Molly?"

"Is there any way I'll be able to keep in touch with Charlie?" she asked, her expression hopeful.

_Charlie. _Sherlock did his best to push down his annoyance at that question. "I'll see what can be done."

He headed straight for the bathroom. Very. Cold. Shower.


	9. Knight in a Belstaff

Molly had never been so happy to see John Watson in her entire life. The friendly doctor walked right into the flat he once shared with Sherlock and immediately his gaze met with hers. His smile was warm, welcoming.

"Molly," John greeted her. "How are you?"

_Wonderful now that you're here to take the world's only consulting detective's attention away from me._

"Fine, fine. How are you? How is Mary?"

John shook his head. "Swollen ankles, tender back, trouble sleeping. Cravings for ice cream. The baby can't get here soon enough."

Sherlock hadn't looked up from the files he'd spread over the table in front of the sofa where Molly sat trying to read the paper. She knew better than to think he wasn't paying attention to their conversation though.

"And then there's this one." John jerked his thumb in Sherlock's direction.

"I assure you that I've been just fine, John." Sherlock still didn't look up. "Molly saw to my wound last night. I see no reason why she can't continue my care now that she's living here."

"Staying here?" John clarified. "You mean Molly's staying here?"

Sherlock looked up on that note, annoyed. "I said so, didn't I?"

Blowing out an exhale, John turned back to Molly, taking a seat in his old chair. "How did it look then?"

Molly nodded. "No swelling or sign of inflammation. I changed the bandage. It's healing well."

"Thank you, Molly." John meant it. "That doesn't mean I don't reserve the right to take a look myself here and there."

Sherlock shook his head, his attention back on the files.

"So any leads then?" John asked, leaning forward to see the files laid out.

Sherlock explained to John that he had a few leads, a few ideas that he would need Mycroft's help on. She really should have paid attention to what he told John but she just couldn't.

What had gotten into Sherlock? He'd been acting strangely since Charlie had arrived in her life. He either seemed angry with her – why she honestly didn't know – or he behaved in ways he'd never acted with her before. Mostly the latter.

On top of that, Moriarty's reappearance had unsettled her. How could it not? She'd been involved in saving Sherlock from the master criminal's plan. The man she'd known simply as "Jim from IT" had to know all about her by now.

And Charlie? Sherlock didn't believe she was knowingly part of Moriarty's plan and that terrified her for the young woman who had already been so disadvantaged. She hoped with everything she had Mycroft would be able to keep her safe, that the girl would have a chance at a future. Apparently it was no coincidence that the girl found her way to Molly. Sherlock was determined to find out more about that. Molly just worried that it could mean Charlie's doom.

Sherlock was more focused on Molly though. That he cared about her safety, wanted to protect her? She'd be lying if she said that it didn't please her. To know he cared? It was everything. Hell, he'd even taken in Toby and his relationship with her feline companion was strained at best.

Last night he'd taken over her call to John, swept into her apartment like a knight in a Belstaff, and before she knew it, Charlie was whisked off who-knew-where to be protected by Mycroft and the British Government. Sherlock had taken her back to Baker Street where she'd slept in his bed, in his shirt. Hell, this morning, she'd waken up with her head on his chest and her leg against his…

Her face warmed up at the memory of waking up with the man she'd adored for so long under such circumstances. She could almost think that he _wanted_ her.

As if the damned man could read her very thoughts, Sherlock looked up at that moment, not pausing in his conversation with John and _smirked_ at her.

Leaving the paper on the sofa, Molly tried to ease her way out of the room without notice. Right. She could practically feel his eyes burning into her back as she fled to the bedroom. _His_ bedroom. And then she paced. Molly actually _paced_ as she'd seen him do so many times.

Since waking up next to Sherlock, she'd been waiting for the day to gain any sort of normalcy. In reality with Sherlock, as she had always known it, she should have showered, dressed, eaten the lovely breakfast Mrs. Hudson had brought up for them, and then tried to stay out of the detective's way while she fretted about all of it. And that was how it all happened. Yet something was off. Something was _very_ off.

Molly remembered how he was when he'd crashed at her flat. He'd ask for things, she'd provide them. She didn't try to engage him in conversation or interrupt his delicate internal balance in any way. Years of working with him had taught her well. For him it was the work. It was all about the work.

Yet she could feel his focus on her as heavily as if it had been a physical weight. What she didn't understand was _why_. Why was he looking at her now with such interest? If it were any man but Sherlock, she'd think he desired her.

Molly shook her head. No, that couldn't be right. Sherlock didn't do relationships or social customs. He didn't like physical contact at all. How in the world would he ever be interested in sex? Much less relationships? It didn't make sense.

And yet he'd been holding her this morning before she'd awakened. He'd said he slept on the couch and she had no reason to not to believe that. Still, how long had she been curled around him in bed?

Something was different. Molly didn't understand.

Poking her head out the door revealed that they were still talking and Molly straightened herself up and decided to go back out there. If John left, she didn't want Sherlock to come looking for her _here_, in his bedroom. It was probably her imagination. Or she was the unwitting subject of a weird experiment? There had to be _some_ explanation.

Neither man looked up when she returned to the sofa and resumed her reading. Well, her attempts at reading. She wasn't having a lot of luck actually retaining any of the words she took in. Her mind was so swamped with the upheaval of her entire life and the changes in her relationship that had all taken place in the last twenty four hours that she felt on edge.

John had stayed for a little while, leaving only after Sherlock had assured him that he was physically fine and he'd keep him updated with any new developments in the situation with Moriarty. Sherlock explained they were all being monitored by Mycroft's agents and would continue to be for the foreseeable future. After giving Molly a hug, he'd left her alone with Sherlock once again.

To her relief, Sherlock seemed still absorbed in his files. Thinking that she hadn't checked her email today as she normally did before she went to work, Molly fetched her mobile phone from her coat pocket. As she sat down on the sofa again, she opened her email app and saw that she had a few new messages.

Emails sent out to hospital employees, an email from her mother.

And email from Jim.

Jim?

_Oh, it couldn't be._

Molly's breath hitched in her throat as she tapped on the message with a finger to open it and saw that there was a link to something in the body of the message.

So quietly she didn't notice he'd joined her on the sofa, Sherlock gently wrapped his hand around hers and the phone. This time he tapped on the screen. A video launched, filling up the small screen.

"Hello there, Molly," Jim Moriarty's smiling face greeted her. "Sherlock. Aren't you two cozy in there, plotting away about what to do with little ole me?"

Her heart was flying. Moriarty knew where she was, who she was with.

"I'm a little surprised that you didn't bring Charlie back to Baker Street too, Sherlock," Moriarty taunted him in his crazy Irish accent. "You're no longer a virgin, after all, and Charlie? Well, it's true Charlie likes girls a little bit better than boys. But she'd be _so_ fun to play with, wouldn't she? She likes our little Molly. _You_ like our little Molly. You had the makings of one delicious pathologist sandwich there. Mmmmm-mmmmm."

Molly's face went up in flames while Sherlock's hand tightened around hers.

"Or maybe you're just not ready for a threesome just yet? It is all so _new_." Jim laughed then, moving closer to the recording device as if he were whispering in one's ear. "Threesomes are so much fun but hard to make work. I'm still willing to give it a try. Charlie is mine and I know exactly where she is. I'll have my two birds here together very soon, yes."

Backing away from the recording device, Moriarty widened his eyes comically and held up a hand in front of his mouth as if he were shocked at something he'd just discerned in a very bad play.

"Oh, Sherlock, you got that reference, didn't you? Two birds, one stone? Yes? Charlie and her sister are my two birds. My two pretty, pretty birds. One of them I've taught to fly. Oh, Sherlock, you should see her _fly_."

Molly swallowed hard, not wanting to hear more but unable to move until she'd heard everything.

"I'll have to punish Charlie though. Such a naughty bird that one. Such a dirty little bird." Moriarty stopped then, his expression sobering. "And you, my little Molly, _you_ are the stone. Did you figure that out?"

Fighting to keep her composure, Molly took a deep breath, seeing that the video was almost at its end.

"You're the stone around Sherlock's neck. And you… you're going to _drown_ him." Moriarty stared wildly at her in the video, his intense gaze searing into her heart and filling it with fear.

He planned to use her to hurt Sherlock. How?

The video ended. Sherlock closed out of the message, taking the phone gently out of her hand.

"Molly, breathe," he said gently.

Releasing the breath she didn't realize she'd been holding, she struggled with crippling fear. Moriarty was back. He'd devastated Sherlock's life before – all of their lives – and now he was back for more. How would they get through this? Any of them?

"We will stop him, Molly." There was such determination in his voice. "I will stop him."

Molly stared up at him. _This is new. _The last time Moriarty had come for Sherlock, the detective had been worried, frightened – and not for himself. He'd come to her for help and all of their lives had been altered for over two years. He'd paid such a price to keep them safe.

Now there was something different flashing in those beautiful eyes of his – anger, resolve. Carefully he set her phone to the side before wrapping his arms around her and pulling her against his chest. Molly was only surprised for a moment before she slid her arms around him, settling with her ear against his heart and trying not to cling too tightly because of his injury. And his heart was pounding. His chin pressed to the top of her head and his hands were smoothing up and down her back.

It wasn't like him at all. None of it was. That as much as Moriarty's thinly veiled threat had tears flooding her eyes.

Sherlock didn't understand. He thought her fear of Moriarty was the cause of her upset.

"I won't let him hurt you, Molly."

Had he just pressed his lips into her hair?

"I'll keep you safe. Shhhhh."

Who was the man holding her and what had he done with the clinical, impersonal detective she'd always known?

Sherlock let Molly cry it out for long moments. When her distress seemed to let up, he eased away from her, tipping up her chin with one of his long, elegant fingers.

"I need to send the video to Mycroft. All right?" He was gazing into her eyes as he spoke.

Molly was struggling to breathe. She was able to nod and watched him as he took her phone and forwarded the email with the video to his brother with lightning speed. He didn't let go of her for a moment.

Only a moment later, Sherlock's phone rang and he pulled away to answer it. It didn't take her long to figure out it was Mycroft on the phone.

"I'm aware of that, Mycroft, but Molly will remain here with me," Sherlock said with no small amount of ire in his voice. "I'm as good as fully recovered so your point is moot."

Molly shook her head. Sherlock was far from fully recovered.

"Yes, we can discuss our plans. Later. I will call you. Just make it happen." Abruptly he ended the call, his attention back on her.

At least she'd managed to dry her eyes, still swiping at them with the backs of her hands.

Sherlock stopped, studying her. Oh what she wouldn't give to know what was going on in his mind.

Then, judging from his expression, he decided on a course of action. He ordered takeaway from Angelo's, requesting delivery. He'd ordered her favorites, everything from appetizer to dessert. He'd requested two bottles of wine to be delivered with it. Molly hadn't know that wine could be ordered and delivered from that or any restaurant, but if the request were questioned at all, she missed it.

Getting ready for the food's arrival, Molly immediately went to the kitchen to tidy it up. They'd need plates, utensils, flatware – and a clean surface to eat on. She worked diligently at this for a while as Sherlock studied some items he'd stuck up on his wall, including a picture of Charlie.

When she'd finished her task, Molly couldn't help but ask the question that lingered in her mind. "Mycroft doesn't think I should be here, does he?"

"I really don't care what my brother thinks," he said flatly, not moving.

"That's not what I asked."

"I know."

He might have said more but then then someone knocked, the delivery man stood in the doorway. Sherlock paid him and took the bags while Molly scrambled to get the table ready. She didn't get far when he marched into the kitchen and pretty much took over arranging the table, setting out containers, serving them. He'd insisted that she take a seat and eat while he opened the first bottle of wine and poured her a generous glass.

"Sherlock?" Molly was trying to think how best to phrase her question.

He'd just sat down and took a drink from his own glass of wine. "Let me."

"Let you…"

"Molly, ever since I've known you, you've been there for me. To help with cases, to provide whatever I needed. Just this once, let me comfort _you_."

"Okay," Molly said, downing a large drink of wine. What else could she say? If nothing else, she could maybe drown out the crazy questions swirling around in her head.

Sherlock chuckled at that. "Is it _that_ hard?"

Molly took another drink before answering that. "No… And yes."

His smile was warm. "Why yes?"

"You've been different… lately." The same old fear of earning his cutting remarks kept her from elaborating on that.

His intent gaze on her made her wonder if he'd just reached the same conclusion.

When he didn't say anything, she rambled. _Damn it._

"I know you've been through so much in the last couple of years with the fall. And then the Magnussen case. Being shot. You sacrificed so much to keep us all safe from _him_." She would say his name just now. "You killed a man to protect John, Mary and their child."

"Molly…"

Molly had to say it. After she had another drink of her wine. "Sherlock, you're barely back on your feet physically. The greatest enemy you've ever faced is back from the dead. Everyone you care about is again in danger and …"

Those blue-green eyes didn't release her as he stared at her from across the table. "And?"

"Well, I just wondered why…" _Damn it Molly, just say it._ "Why, with all of this going on, are you trying to comfort… me?"

Sherlock was smiling again. "Molly, I don't need to remind you that you saved my life the last time we faced Moriarty. He'd confirmed for you, today, that you will be as much a target of his as I am. I want to keep you safe. I want to be certain you're safe and the only way I can do that is if you're with me."

Nodding, Molly grabbed one of the garlic knots. She'd almost finished the first glass of wine and it was probably a good idea to not continue downing it on an empty stomach.

"Please don't feel as if you have to… repay me," she muttered, afraid on some level that it was the sole reason for his actions.

"I don't." Sherlock didn't seem interested in his food, his wine. His gaze remained on her, intense. "You'll recall I told you that you were the one person who counted most to me."

Molly remembered all too well when he'd said that to her. It was the day she'd accompanied him on some of his cases. He'd congratulated her on her engagement to Tom.

"You said that day was your way of saying thank you," Molly pointed out. "Spending the day with you was thanks enough. Please don't feel like you have to watch over me, Sherlock. If you spend half of your time fussing over me, your full attention won't be on stopping him. Your brother knows this."

"I'm not fussing over you." Sherlock drank from his wine glass now. She watched him swallow, his neck was long and graceful. "You have a good mind, Molly. I'm counting on you to help me in dealing with Moriarty. And in keeping Dr. Watson from fussing over _me_. I need you strong for the days ahead of us."

"But do you need me _here_?"

"Yes." There was something downright predatory in his expression now. "Eat."


End file.
